The sudden click of the disconnected line echoed in Olivia’s ear like a gunshot. She stared at her phone screen, her heart slamming violently against her ribs.

The sudden click of the disconnected line echoed in Olivia’s ear like a gunshot.

She stared at her phone screen, her heart slamming violently against her ribs. Daniel’s voice—frightened, thin, and raspy—hovered in the air between them. Don’t go home.

"Olivia."

Luca’s voice broke through the deafening rush of blood in her ears. He was sitting up on the examination table now, ignoring Dr. Greene’s stern, hushed protests. The white bandages wrapped around his ribs were already seeping a tiny bloom of red, but his dark eyes were completely steady, locked onto hers with absolute focus.

"Who was that?" Luca asked.

"My... my brother," Olivia whispered, her hand trembling so hard the phone almost slipped through her fingers. "Daniel. He told me not to go home."

Marco stepped forward, his heavy leather shoes silent against the polished concrete floor. He held out his hand. "Give me the phone."

"Why?" Olivia asked, pulling back instinctively.

"Because if whoever ran that hit targeted you first, they already have your location data," Marco said, his tone flat and unyielding. "If your brother called you from a compromised line, they can trace the tower leap within sixty seconds."

Olivia looked at Luca. The crime boss gave her a single, silent nod. Reluctantly, she handed the phone to Marco, who immediately popped the back casing, pulled out the SIM card, and snapped it in two between his thumb and forefinger.

"Hey!" she gasped. "My pictures! My contacts—"

"I’ll buy you ten new phones," Luca said, swinging his legs over the edge of the medical table. He winced slightly as his feet hit the floor, but he stood up, towering over her. The sheer physical presence of the man was overwhelming. Broad-shouldered, ink swirling down his neck beneath his unbuttoned linen shirt, he looked less like an injured victim and more like a predator evaluating a sudden shift in the wind.

He stepped toward Marco and took the watch from his hand. His calloused thumb traced the tiny black emblem carved into the silver casing—two crossed lines inside a circle.

"The Vanguard," Luca murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Olivia’s neck stand up. "They haven't used this mark in New York since my father was alive."

"It doesn't make sense, Boss," Marco said, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty Hudson River. "The Vanguard is an offshore syndicate. They operate out of Eastern Europe and London. They don't pull hit jobs in broad daylight on 5th Avenue unless..."

"Unless someone inside the city bought a contract," Luca finished. He turned his gaze back to Olivia. "Your brother. What does he do?"

Olivia swallowed hard, rubbing her cold arms. "He’s an analyst. He works for a private financial firm downtown—Vanderbilt & Cole."

"Vanderbilt & Cole doesn't handle standard equities," Marco interjected, his eyes narrowing. "They process high-yield private equity for international shell companies. Half the offshore accounts in Panama run through their server farms."

"Daniel is just an associate!" Olivia said defensively, her voice rising as panic began to settle in. "He doesn't do anything illegal! He’s twenty-six! He plays video games and worries about his student loans!"

"Then why did a Vanguard shooter have a sightline on your back before the first round was fired?" Luca asked quietly. He walked over to her, stopping less than an arm's length away. The faint smell of cedar, expensive cologne, and iron-rich blood drifted off him. "Look at the camera frame, Olivia."

He motioned toward Marco’s phone screen, which still displayed the paused surveillance footage.

Olivia forced herself to look. In the grainy reflection of the glass storefront behind her, a young man was standing near an alleyway. He wore a heavy navy hoodie, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face shadowed by a baseball cap.

Her breath hitched. She knew those posture cues. She knew that nervous stance.

"Daniel," she breathed, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh god... Daniel was there."

"He was your spotter," Marco said coldly. "Or your bait."

"No!" Olivia shouted, spinning around to face Marco. "He wouldn't! He’s my brother! We buried our parents together! He wouldn't set me up to be shot!"

"He didn't set you up, Olivia," Luca said smoothly, stepping directly between her and Marco. His voice was oddly gentle, a strange contrast to the cold danger radiating from his posture. "If he wanted you dead, he wouldn't have risked his life to call you five minutes ago and tell you to run."

Olivia looked up at Luca, her eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. "Then what is happening?"

"What’s happening," Luca said, setting his jaw as a fresh wave of pain rippled through his side, "is that your brother stole something from very bad people. And he used you as his dead-drop without your knowledge."

Before Olivia could process the words, a loud, high-pitched tone chimed from the terminal near the elevator. Marco drew his sidearm in a single, fluid motion, his thumb flicking the safety off.

"We have an unannounced elevator ascent," Marco reported, his eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator. "Floor four... floor five..."

"Greene, get in the back room," Luca ordered without looking back. The doctor didn't argue; he grabbed his medical kit and ducked through a heavy steel door near the back wall.

Luca turned to Olivia, grabbing her wrist—the same firm, unyielding grip from the pavement. He pulled her behind him, using his body as a shield as the elevator chimed, signaling its arrival on the top floor.

The heavy brushed-steel doors slid open.

Standing inside the elevator was not an armed strike team.

It was a woman.

She was in her late fifties, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than Olivia’s annual salary. Her silver hair was pulled back into a flawless bun, and her pale blue eyes were as sharp as ice. Two armed men in gray suits stood directly behind her.

Luca didn't lower his guard, but his shoulder muscles relaxed slightly. "Victoria."

The woman stepped out of the elevator, her heels clicking crisply against the concrete. Her gaze swept over the bloody bandages around Luca’s waist, then flicked to Marco’s raised gun, and finally landed on Olivia.

"You're bleeding on your mother's rug, Luca," Victoria said, her voice smooth, refined, and entirely devoid of warmth. "And you brought a stray into the safehouse."