Nico presses a button.
The highest one.
I watch the numbers climb.
Forty-two floors.
Forty-two floors between us and the street.
Forty-two floors between us and anyone with a rifle and a scope.
I don't say it out loud.
I don't need to.
The penthouse. The highest point in the building. Maximum distance from street-level threats. Maximum time to respond if someone breaches the lower floors.
They're afraid of snipers.
After what just happened at my apartment, they're taking no chances.
The thought should comfort me.
It doesn't.
It just reminds me that this is my life now. Calculating sight lines. Counting floors. Measuring the distance between myself and the next bullet.
The elevator climbs.
Dante's hand stays on my back.
Warm. Steady. Present.
I focus on that instead of the numbers.
Twenty-three.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-five.
The silence in the elevator is suffocating.
Nico stands facing the doors, hands clasped in front of him. The driver—I never got his name—watches the floor indicator with professional detachment.
Thirty-one.
Thirty-two.
Dante shifts beside me.
I glance at him.
His jaw is tight. His breathing is controlled but shallow. The wound is hurting him. I can see it in the way he holds himself, the careful distribution of weight.
He catches me looking.
Doesn't say anything.
