I can't finish the thought.
"She's smart," Pietro says. "She'll activate it, if she can."
"If she's conscious." The words taste like ash. "If they didn't?—"
"Don't."
I look up at him then. Pietro Sartori stands beside my desk, blood splattered across his white shirt, a cut above his left eye. His face is carved from stone. No emotion. No weakness.
But his hands shake.
Just slightly. Barely noticeable. But I see it.
"She is still alive because you pushed her down." Pietro's jaw works. "Sophia took a bullet to the shoulder. Aleksander was grazed across the ribs. Everyone else is bruised, cut, terrified. But alive."
Everyone except Vittoria.
The thought sits in my chest like a blade.
"I should have?—"
"Should have what?" Pietro's voice cuts like a whip. "You did everything right. We need to find who planned this."
"Rogers."
"Maybe."
I look at him sharply. "You doubt it?"
"Rogers is an entitled prick," Pietro says slowly. "But this?" He gestures toward the window. "This takes planning. Resources. Men willing to die. Those shooters knew they weren't walking out of here."
"Suicide mission."
"Exactly." Pietro turns back to me. "Rogers doesn't have that kind of loyalty. His people work for money, not devotion."
He's right. I know he's right. But Rogers is the only one who makes sense.
"Then who?"
"I don't know." Pietro's hands curl into fists. "But when we find them?—"
The door slams open.
Igor stumbles in, blood streaming down the side of his face. His left ear is mangled, torn. More blood soaks through his shirt from a head wound.
"Blyad!" I'm on my feet, moving toward him.
Igor waves me off. "I'm fine. Bullet grazed my head. Made me fall. Hit the floor hard." He touches his ear, winces. "Bleeding like a stuck pig but I'll live."
"Sit down before you pass out."
"The cops left, Yuri called to our man and they left. They grabbed 3 men just for show." Igor says.
I guide him to the leather chair by the window. He collapses into it, head falling back against the cushion. Blood continues to stream from his ear.
"How many men do we have?" I ask Pietro.
"Now? Twenty of mine. Fifteen of yours." Pietro's voice is clinical. Detached. "We've got eight of the shooters alive. The rest are dead."
