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In the footage, the assistant grabs her before she slumps, lifting her like a doll. Her head falls against his chest; her hair spills forward. Morales brushes Lana’s cheek with gloved fingers, then she turns and looks right into the camera.

Directly at me. At us. A tiny, smug curl shows on her lips.

My vision whites out for a second.

They carry Lana into the elevator–Morales first, then the assistant, cradling her limp body. Lana’s hand twitches once against his coat. A useless, unconscious reach.

The doors slide shut on her.

And we’re left staring at an empty hallway, the audio dead except for my heartbeat smashing against my skull.

“I should have caught it,” Sol breaks the silence, his voice tight. He doesn’t look up. He should feel guilty. He’s the one who let her through.

“I knew what happened at the hospital,” he continues. His breath stutters. “I should have stopped her. I should have called it in. I–”

“This doesn’t sit on you alone, Sol,” Brox cuts in, placing a hand on Sol’s shoulder. “We should’ve shut Morales down after the hospital.”

I don’t breathe for a long moment. Then a roar bursts from my chest, violent and unrestrained, shaking the room as my fist crashes into the desk and rattles the monitors.

Brox doesn’t look at me. He’s staring at the last frame–Lana, unconscious, being taken out of our home.

“I’ll fucking kill her,” I snarl.

Brox finally speaks, his voice low enough to scrape bone.

“Morales doesn’t walk away from this.”

I nod, the decision is already carved into me.

CHAPTER 3

BROX

“Rio, stop.”

He doesn’t.

He steps to the back wall, and presses the hidden panel, which silently slides open. Then he grabs the nearest gun and tucks it into the back of his waistband as his eyes burn through the room. Whatever sanity he once had drained away, replaced by pure hurricane.

Sol shoots up on his feet, tense, watching us both. He knows where this leads.

I step between Rio and the door.

“Move,” Rio grinds out.

“No.” I meet his eyes. “You see her first, she dies before she opens her mouth.”

“That’s the idea, Brox.”

“Not yet.”

He breathes hard through his nose. The barrel of the gun dips, then lifts again. His cell buzzes on the desk next to him, screen flashing with an Italian number. He picks up his cell but ignores the call.

“You need me to come with you?” Sol asks, ready to kill for us.

I turn my head to him. “No. We’ll deal with this.”

His gaze flicks between us, then to the screen, where the last image of Lana still shows: her unconscious face, her limp frame.