"Sit down before you fall down."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through your shirt."
I glance down.
He's right.
A dark stain is spreading across the fabric near my hip. The stitches must have torn during the extraction. Or maybe during the elevator ride. Or maybe when I threw Marina behind the couch and covered her body with mine.
Doesn't matter.
"I'll deal with it later."
"You'll deal with it now." Lorenzo's voice leaves no room for argument. "Sit."
He points at the couch.
I consider refusing.
Then I consider how much energy that would cost me.
I sit.
The leather is cold against my back. The cushions are too soft. Everything in this penthouse screams money—the kind of money that buys safety, buys distance, buys time.
Lorenzo remains standing.
He looks down at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"How did you find this place?" I ask.
"Nico's been running operations in Denver for three months," Lorenzo says. "Building infrastructure. Safe houses.Escape routes. This penthouse is one of six properties we own in the city."
Six properties.
I didn't know.
That bothers me.
"Why wasn't I informed?"
"Because you were supposed to be in Chicago." Lorenzo's voice is flat. "Not bleeding out in some woman's apartment."
Some woman.
He knows better than that.
He knows exactly who Marina is to me.
"Don't," I say.
Lorenzo raises an eyebrow.
"Don't what?"
"Don't pretend you don't know why I was there."
