“The key is in your pocket,” Matteo whispered. “The codes are memorized in your head.”

“Matteo, no,” I whispered back, panic rising in my throat.

“You have to run,” he said, his voice a low thread of sound. “They want the money. If I stay, they will focus on me.”

“I am waiting, Matteo,” Enzo called out, his patience clearly wearing thin.

The man with the knife pressed the edge into my father’s skin, and a thin line of red appeared on his cheek.

“Stop!” Matteo shouted, stepping forward.

He raised both hands in the air, open and empty.

“I have the physical key in my jacket,” Matteo lied, his voice loud enough to fill the warehouse.

Enzo’s eyes locked onto Matteo’s chest.

“Slowly,” Enzo warned. “Pull it out with two fingers.”

Matteo reached into his inner jacket pocket, his movements deliberate and slow.

But instead of a key, he pulled out a small black flash-bang grenade.

He pulled the pin with his teeth and dropped it straight at his own feet.

“Run!” Matteo yelled.