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My head tilts slightly. “Which staircase?”
“The service stairs near the rear exit.” Morales lifts a hand and points toward the far wall, where a door leads deeper into her domain, toward the inner corridors and the emergency exit route. “The one leading to the back alley. I followed, but she moved surprisingly fast. By the time I reached the landing, she had already forced the door open.”
Rio laughs, humorless and raw. “You expect us to believe you?”
“I prioritized not injuring her,” Morales says. “You were very clear. No permanent damage. No marks that would upset her… performance schedule.”
Her eyes linger on Rio at that last part. She knows that for Rio she’ll always be a pet with paying clients.
He steps forward hard enough to rattle her pen pot across the desk. The gun presses against her forehead now, skin whitening around the barrel.
“Rio,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
Morales’ pupils dilate, but she doesn’t flinch back. She holds his gaze with unnatural steadiness.
“I told her to stop,” she says evenly. “I apologized. She refused to listen. Fear overrides reason. You know that better than anyone.”
My teeth snap together. For a second, I picture it: Lana’s bare feet pounding along the corridor, eyes wild.
“Check the footage,” Morales says, voice steady. “Rear exit. Back alley. You’ll see. She pushed through that door. You can follow her path from there.”
Her expression sits right at the edge of believable. Just enough order, just enough tension. No more.
Something in my spine disagrees with everything coming out of her mouth.
Rio bares his teeth. “You hurt her, you fucking–”
“Calm down, Rio,” I cut in.
He rounds on me. “Calm down? She drugged her, dragged her out of the penthouse, used her body as a lab rat, and lost her. And you tell me to ‘calm down’?”
“It ends,” I say quietly, “when we have Lana back. Not one second earlier. You pull that trigger now, we lose our only source.”
He breathes through his teeth, his chest rise and fall under his tailored suit. His hair is out of place, messy. The veins on his neck make his tattoos come alive. His gun trembles, just slightly.
Morales watches us with predator stillness. She has already assessed the distance to the door behind me. She won’t do it. Not yet. She knows we would put her down before she leaves her chair.
Rio’s cell vibrates again. A muffled buzz from his pocket, insistent. Italy refuses to stop calling.
He doesn’t even blink.
I step forward until I almost crowd him off her. My hand closes over his wrist. I feel the tendon jump under my fingers.
“She dies. Just not yet.” I murmur only for him.
His eyes cut to mine. Black fire. Then, slowly, his fingers ease away from the trigger. He lowers the gun an inch. Then another.
Finally, it points at the floor between Morales’ shoes.
“If you ever touch Lana again without my clearance,” he tells Morales, in a low and vicious voice, “I will feed you to the rats in here, and watch.”
Morales stares back. “Understood.”
I turn toward the door. “Let’s not waste more time in here,” I say, already moving, “We got to check the rear exit cameras.”
Morales speaks behind us. “You’ll see what I described. And you’ll see she made her own choice once she was free of the sedative.”
