He reached for his sidearm, but Bishop lunged, clamping his jaws onto the man’s sleeve.

The man screamed, thrashing against the floor as the dog held him down.

“Easy, Bishop,” I said, my voice low and steady. “Hold.”

The dog did not tear; he simply pinned the wrist to the ground, growling deep in his chest.

I took the rifle from the man’s limp fingers and tossed it across the floor.

Lucian walked into the kitchen, his pistol still smoking.

He looked at the pinned shooter, then at me, then at the skillet in my hand.

“Alina is in the basement office,” I said, wiping a splash of plum juice from my cheek. “We need to get her out.”

“She is already safe,” Lucian said. “My men secured the back alley two minutes ago.”

He walked over to the shooter and kicked his helmet off, revealing a young face I recognized.

It was Toby, one of the drivers from the estate.

“Who paid you, Toby?” Lucian asked, his voice flat.

Toby spat blood onto the white tiles but remained silent.