His fingers pressed into the old bruise on my collarbone.

Lorenzo spun, his boots sliding on the marble dust, but the Glock was no longer in his hand.

It lay ten feet away, reflecting the rhythmic crimson pulses of the emergency light.

“Don’t reach for it,” Evan warned, his voice straining against the noise of the siren.

He pulled a small, silver-plated revolver from his coat pocket and leveled it at Lorenzo’s chest.

The red light swept over Evan’s face, turning his sweat-slicked skin the color of fresh blood.

Lorenzo stood completely still, his chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged gasps.

“You’re a dead man, Morris,” Lorenzo said, his voice flat and cold.

“Maybe,” Evan said, a tight, nervous smile twitching on his lips. “But not before I get paid.”

I tried to twist out of his hold, but he shoved the barrel of the revolver against my temple.

The cold steel sent a shiver straight down my spine.

“Stop moving, Hunter,” Evan muttered.

“Evan, please,” I whispered, my throat dry from the plaster dust. “Think about what you’re doing. The baby is dying.”