I grabbed Giovanni’s sleeve, looking up at him.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“He is my son, Lauren,” Giovanni said, his jaw tight. “I protect what is mine.”

Before I could answer, a loud, metallic clunk echoed through the ceiling.

The steady hum of the ventilation system stopped.

The bright white lights in the hallway and the room flickered twice, then died completely.

We were plunged into absolute, pitch-black silence.

In the dark, the quiet sound of a heavy door clicking open echoed from the far end of the corridor.

I held my breath, clutching Luca tighter against my chest.

The small plastic tube of the oxygen monitor slipped from his tiny nose.

Giovanni’s hand clamped down on my shoulder, his grip like iron.

“Stay down,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

In the dark, a flashlight beam sliced through the glass window of the hospital room door.

It swept past us, illuminating dust motes dancing in the cold, still air.

A sudden, sharp pop echoed down the corridor, followed by two more.

It was the muffled sound of silenced gunfire, flat and deadly.