The bullets from outside were only a distraction... because the real assassin was already walking through the library doors.

“Can you actually fight?”

Mia Callaway smiled at Matteo Duca as if he had asked whether she knew how to open a door.

“Yes,” she said.

Matteo leaned back in the armchair, one eyebrow raised. “That was confident.”

“It was an easy question.”

He set the paperback facedown on his knee. “My father hires men who look like they were carved out of prison walls. You look like you apologize to furniture when you bump into it.”

“I do,” Mia admitted. “Furniture has feelings.”

Matteo laughed once, softly, like he hadn’t meant to.

That tiny sound almost made Mia forget she was standing in the house of a man people feared saying no to. Almost.

Then Matteo moved.

Fast.

The book dropped. His hand shot toward the inside of his jacket, not quite reaching a weapon, just testing her. Mia reacted before the rest of the room caught up. She stepped in, caught his wrist, twisted, hooked her foot behind his ankle, and sent him down into the carpet with a controlled thud.

Unfortunately, she also tripped over the edge of the rug and landed on top of him.

For one terrible second, they stared at each other.

Matteo was flat on his back. Mia’s knee pinned his wrist. Her hair had fallen partly out of its clip. His face was inches from hers.

“I meant to do that,” she said.

His mouth twitched. “The takedown or the dramatic collapse?”

“Both. Psychological warfare.”

He laughed again.

From the doorway, Carlo DeLuca did not laugh.

Neither did Lorenzo Duca, who had appeared silently behind him.

Mia got to her feet quickly and pulled Matteo up with her. Matteo adjusted his shirt, still smiling, while Lorenzo’s expression remained carved from stone.

“She put you on the floor,” Lorenzo said to his son.

“She did,” Matteo replied.

“And then fell on you.”

“That part was less traditional.”

Mia lifted a finger. “But effective.”

Lorenzo looked at her for a long moment. “You have twenty-two hours.”

“I thought I had twenty-two hours and forty minutes.”

“You have used forty minutes irritating me.”

Matteo glanced at Mia. “You should know that means he likes you.”

“I do not,” Lorenzo said.

“No one asked you, Papa.”

The word Papa softened something in the room for half a second. Then Lorenzo looked away, and the softness disappeared.

Mia noticed it. She noticed everything.

She noticed the slight tremor in Matteo’s left hand when his father entered. She noticed Carlo’s eyes shifting toward the east window every few seconds. She noticed one of the library’s security cameras blinking with a faint delay, as if the feed had been looped or interrupted.

Most people looked at power and saw the powerful.

Mia looked at power and saw where it leaked.

“Mr. Duca,” she said.

Lorenzo had already turned to leave. He stopped.

“The east camera is delayed.”

Carlo’s head snapped toward her. “It is not.”

Mia pointed at the polished brass clock on the shelf beneath it. “The second hand hit twelve three seconds ago. On the camera reflection, it hasn’t moved yet.”

Silence.

Matteo turned slowly toward the window.

Carlo crossed the room and checked the tablet clipped to his belt. His jaw tightened.

“It’s a minor system lag,” Carlo said.

Mia looked at Lorenzo. “Minor lags get people killed.”