“Elena,” Stany repeated, tasting the word. “Do you know where you are?”
Stany read it twice. Then a third time. The vault behind him, with its silver spools of cruelty and triumph, suddenly felt like a tomb. Stany Falcone
“Don’t ever become like me.”
He took the letter. The handwriting was Mario’s—looping, hurried, like a man writing on a sinking ship. “Elena,” Stany repeated, tasting the word