The question hung in the stale, blood-scented air of my apartment, heavy with the weight of a dozen different execution styles.

“Leather shoes?” I whispered, taking a slow step backward until my shoulders hit the cold wall beside the kitchenette. “Mrs. Gable wears orthopedic Velcro sneakers with floral prints. If someone is wearing leather shoes above us, it’s not her.”

Roman didn't answer. He was already moving toward the hallway with terrifying, predatory stealth. Despite the five-inch jagged slash across his ribs and the massive blood loss he had suffered only hours ago, he crossed the room like a ghost. He pressed his back flat against the wall beside the front door, motioning sharply with one hand for me to stay put.

I wanted to stay put. My brain was screaming at me to lock myself in the bathroom, curl up in the bathtub, and pretend the entire mafia had never crossed my threshold.

Instead, my feet betrayed me. I crept toward the kitchen counter, my fingers closing around a heavy, stainless-steel meat mallet I’d forgotten to wash after making chicken cutlets three days ago.

Thud.

This time, the sound came from right above the kitchen—directly beneath Mrs. Gable’s bedroom. It was followed by a muffled curse, the distinctive scrape of a heavy wooden dresser being dragged across hardwood floors, and then a heavy, sickening crunch.

Roman’s eyes met mine across the dim room. His lips didn't move, but the look in his dark eyes spelled it out with terrifying clarity: An extraction team.

Someone hadn't just tracked Roman to my building. They had climbed through the fire escape, bypassed the roof security, and broken into the empty apartment directly above mine to drop down through the ventilation shaft or pry open the ceiling panels.

“They’re coming through the ceiling,” I mouthed, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Roman nodded once. He reached out, grabbed the heavy metal deadlock on my front door, and silently turned it twice, throwing every bolt into place. Then he reached behind the entryway umbrella stand, pulled out a sleek, suppressed Walther PPK pistol I hadn't even noticed him stash there earlier, and checked the magazine with a practiced, lightning-fast click.

“Wait,” I hissed, stepping forward. “Where did you—you didn't have that when you collapsed!”

“A backup piece is standard equipment when you run half the waterfront,” Roman muttered, his eyes locked on the ceiling plaster above the small dining table. “Stay behind me, Nora.”

“I have a meat mallet and zero survival instincts, Roman, so don't give me orders—”

CRACK.

The plaster above the small wooden table exploded in a cloud of white dust and splintered lath. A heavy black combat boot dropped through the opening, followed immediately by the barrel of a suppressed submachine gun.

Time seemed to slow down to an agonizing crawl.

Before the man above could kick his second leg through the ceiling, Roman moved. He didn't hesitate, didn't flinch. He lunged forward, grabbed the dangling combat boot with both hands, and yanked downward with every ounce of his considerable strength.

A startled scream echoed from the ceiling hole, followed by a heavy, bone-crunching thud as a man in full tactical black gear crashed headfirst onto my kitchen table, shattering the cheap laminate into a hundred jagged pieces.

Before the intruder could even draw a breath, Roman was on top of him, the barrel of his Walther pressed firmly against the man’s forehead.

“Who sent you?” Roman’s voice was a low, lethal growl that shook the very foundation of the room.