Captain Owen Harris narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze from Mateo’s impenetrable expression to Genevieve. The flashing red and blue lights from the police cruisers outside painted the shattered marble floor in eerie, pulsing strokes.

Genevieve pressed herself flat against the base of the writing desk, her chest heaving as she stared down the barrel of the silenced pistol.

“You’re Arthur,” she breathed, her voice trembling.

“I am,” Arthur replied smoothly, stepping further into the room, his eyes scanning the space like a predator evaluating a cornered animal. “And you are the one tiny detail I failed to calculate during the gala. I thought you were just another decorator obsessed with white roses.”

“Why?” Genevieve forced the word out, trying to buy time, trying to listen for any sound of footsteps in the hall. “He trusted you for twenty years.”

“Trust is a luxury for men who don't understand history,” Arthur said, his voice hardening. “Mateo is young. He’s arrogant. He thinks running a legitimate shipping empire makes us untouchable by the old families in Sicily. He’s selling out our traditions for corporate boardrooms and government contracts. Someone had to correct the course of the family.”

“By murdering him in public?”

“By staging a tragedy that looks like a war with a rival syndicate,” Arthur corrected coldly. “Everything was set. Until you happened to be standing by the service corridor and watched me kick that weapon.”

Arthur raised the pistol slightly, aiming it squarely at her chest.

“It’s a shame, really. You throw a lovely party, Miss Sinclair. But loose ends must be tied up before sunrise.”

Genevieve closed her eyes for a split second, bracing for the impact.

Bang.

The sound was muffled, but it didn't come from Arthur’s gun.

Arthur’s eyes widened in sudden shock. The pistol slipped from his fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor. He staggered forward, clutching his right shoulder as a dark stain bloomed across his silk shirt.