Dr. Sullivan’s hand shook so violently that the needle clicked against the side of the glass vial.

“Hold him still, Lauren,” the doctor whispered, his voice cracking.

I pressed my palms against Luca’s tiny, burning shoulders.

His skin felt like dry paper left out in the sun.

“Do it now,” I said.

Giovanni did not look back at us.

He stood to the side of the heavy inner door, his black pistol raised toward the ceiling.

The red emergency light painted his face in harsh, dark shadows.

A shadow fell across the threshold of the shattered upper doorway.

“Moretti!” a voice shouted from the stairwell.

It was not Vance, but one of his men.

The voice was muffled by the thick concrete, but the threat was clear.

“We know you are down there with the boy,” the man called.

“Put the gun down and make this easy.”

Giovanni did not answer.

He squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed concrete space.

Dust shook loose from the ventilation pipes above our heads.

A cry of pain echoed from the stairs, followed by the sound of a body tumbling down the steps.