She nods rapidly.
I help her up and point her down the service stairs. She moves, limping slightly, but moving.
Then I hear a male voice from the dining room.
“Clear.”
Another voice answers from the entry hall. “Find them.”
I move toward the sound, every part of me focusing in on them. I reach the edge of the kitchen arch and use the reflection in the glass cabinet to see.
Two men in black tactical clothing in the dining room.
One near the table. One by the sideboard.
Suppressed weapons. Professional posture.
The yellow roses are knocked sideways, water spreading across the tablecloth.
Something hot and ugly moves through me.
I step back into the kitchen, take the carving knife from the block beside the counter, and slide into the shadow near the archway.
The first one comes because I make him come.
A small sound. Barely anything. The edge of my boot against the lower cabinet, just enough to register as movement from the kitchen.
His head turns.
He lifts one hand to signal the other man and starts toward me.
Good. Split up.
He enters the kitchen with his weapon high, sweeping left first.
Wrong direction.
I hit him from the right.
One hand clamps over his mouth. The other drives the knife in under his ribs, hard and angled up. His body jerks once against mine. I keep him upright, keep the weapon trapped against his chest before it can clatter, and lower him silently to the floor.
He is dead before his knees touch tile.
I strip the weapon from his hand and set it on the counter without a sound.
But the encounter wasn’t entirely soundless, which is just fine with me. It means the other man is suspicious.
Suspicious enough to come.
“Marco?” he says quietly.
When there’s no answer, the second man comes faster.
I stay low behind the island, the knife slick in my hand, my side burning from the sudden movement. Pain flashes hot, but I can’t afford to pause and let the wave pass through naturally.
I ignore it.
The man steps into the kitchen, weapon up.
