Chapter 27

I dug through the box for a while and found a revolver. A Colt Python, the barrel gleaming, the grip carved from dark walnut and etched with the Ricci family crest—an eagle with wings spread wide, a sprig of olive branches clutched in its talons. The gun was empty, no rounds in it. But in the small leather pouch beside it, twelve .357 Magnum rounds were lined up in neat rows, the brass casings glinting a coppery yellow in the dim light.