“I don’t care,” Damiano said.

“I do,” I said. “We have his accounts. We can ruin him without firing another shot.”

Damiano looked at me, a flicker of something like respect in his eyes.

But before he could speak, a flashbang exploded at the bottom of the stairs.

The white light blinded me, and my ears began to ring with a high, deafening whine.

I stumbled backward against the wall, dropping the flash drive.

I scrambled on my hands and knees, my fingers searching the cold wooden floor in the dark.

My hand brushed against the metal casing of the drive.

A rough hand grabbed my collar and yanked me backward.

I prepared to strike with the letter opener, but a familiar scent filled my nose.

It was Damiano’s expensive cologne, mixed with gunsmoke.

He pulled me into a small, dark closet behind the staircase.

He pressed his hand over my mouth.

Through the slats of the closet door, I saw a shadow pass.

It was Marcus.

He was holding a silver revolver, his expensive suit covered in plaster dust.

His eyes were bloodshot, scanning the smoky hallway.