I turned, expecting to see Damiano’s protective touch.

Instead, I looked into the bloodshot eyes of Marcus.

He had cleaned himself up, but his white shirt was wrinkled and his black bowtie was slightly crooked.

His face was pale, sweat glistening on his temples under the gallery spotlights.

He smelled of cheap gin and damp wool.

“Don’t scream,” Marcus whispered, pulling me back into the shadow of a large concrete column.

“There are federal agents in the lobby, Arya, and I have nothing left to lose.”

“Let me go,” I said, my voice shaking as I tried to twist my arm out of his grasp.

His grip only tightened, his fingers pressing into the fresh bruise Damiano had left the night before.

“You think you’re safe with him?” Marcus hissed, laughing softly under his breath.

His eyes darted around the corridor, wild and desperate.

“Look at them,” Marcus said, gesturing with his free hand to the wealthy crowd in the main room.

“They think I’m finished because my accounts are frozen.”

“You are finished, Marcus,” I said, looking over his shoulder for Damiano’s dark head in the crowd.