“Stay back, Marcus,” I said.

My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

He looked at my pocket, his eyes narrowing as he registered the shape of my hand.

A cruel smile touched the corners of his mouth.

“You won’t shoot me,” he said. “You don’t have it in you.”

“Try me,” I said.

Behind me, the metal stairs creaked.

Adrian stepped into the room, his coat damp from the Chicago rain, his face expressionless.

“She won’t have to,” Adrian said.

Marcus went pale, his gaze darting to the window behind his desk that looked over the warehouse floor.

Down below, the heavy metal doors of the warehouse shivered.

With a loud crash, the doors were forced open.

The bright headlights of three black SUVs cut through the dim, dusty air of the warehouse.

Men in tactical gear, bearing the insignia of Romano Security, poured into the space.

“What is this?” Marcus hissed, reaching toward his desk drawer.

“Don’t touch it,” Adrian said, drawing his own weapon with practiced ease.

Marcus froze, his hand hovering inches from the brass handle of the drawer.

Below us, shouting broke out.