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

Before Roman could press the interrogation further, a dull, synchronized series of distant pops echoed from outside my window, followed instantly by the violent flicker and total blackout of the building’s electrical lights.

My apartment plunged into suffocating darkness, save for the pale, streetlamp glow filtering through the blinds.

“Power’s out,” I whispered, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the stainless-steel meat mallet. “They cut the main grid for the block.”

“Not just the grid,” Roman muttered, his dark eyes never leaving the pinned assassin beneath him. With a swift, brutal strike of the pistol grip, Roman knocked the man unconscious, letting his head slump back against the splintered wood of the table. Roman rose smoothly to his feet, wincing only slightly as his stitches pulled. He grabbed my wrist with a grip of iron, pulling me toward the hallway. “They jammed the cellular frequencies. Look at your phone.”

I pulled my cracked smartphone from my pocket. The screen showed zero bars of service, replaced by a ominous, spinning search icon.

“They’ve quarantined this entire city block,” Roman said, his voice deadly calm as he scanned the darkened apartment. “Which means no police are coming, no reinforcements are answering, and whatever happens inside these four walls tonight stays inside these four walls.”

“And you brought this to my front door!” I whisper-shrieked, trying to yank my wrist out of his grip. “I was just trying to serve club soda and pay off my father’s debts, and now I’m trapped in a black-site siege with a bleeding crime lord!”

Roman stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around, letting go of my wrist, and cupped my face with his large, warm hands. His thumbs gently brushed across my cheekbones, wiping away a smear of white plaster dust. His dark eyes caught the dim amber glow of the streetlamp, burning with an intensity that completely eclipsed the danger outside.

“Listen to me, Nora,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register that made my breath catch in my throat. “I didn't bring this war to your door. It was already waiting for me. But the moment you chose to pull me inside, you became the only leverage I have left.”

“Leverage?” My voice shook, a mixture of rage and terror coiling in my chest. “You’re using me as bait?”

“No,” Roman corrected fiercely, his fingers tightening slightly against my skin. “I’m saying you are the only reason I am walking out of here alive. And I swear to you, on everything I’ve built, no one is touching you tonight. Not my enemies, and not the rats inside my own organization.”

A heavy, metallic crash from the hallway outside my front door cut off whatever furious response I had ready.

Someone was working on the heavy deadbolt with a cutting torch. A bright, blinding shower of blue sparks began to spray through the keyhole, casting long, dancing shadows across the hallway walls.

Roman released my face, his expression hardening back into the cold, ruthless mask of the Bianchi boss. He spun around, pushing me behind his broad back, and raised his Walther toward the door.

“Get into the bathroom,” Roman ordered without looking back. “Lock the door. If anyone gets past me, climb out the window and run toward the bay.”

“And leave you here to die?” I demanded, gripping the meat mallet with white-knuckled desperation. “Not a chance in hell, Roman Bianchi. If we’re going to survive this, we do it together.”

Roman froze for a fraction of a second. A strange, fierce light flared in his dark eyes—something resembling absolute, unshakable devotion.