SIXTY SECONDS

"Fifty-nine," Lorenzo murmured.

The silver pistol glinted under the dim moonlight, its heavy barrel pressing mercilessly into Dr. Evans's temple.

My chest heaved as I stared at the floor in absolute horror. Dr. Evans—the kind, quiet chief of medicine who always complained about his joints and tipped me an extra five dollars at the cafeteria register—was shivering in a pool of his own blood. His glasses were missing. His left eye was swollen shut, and a deep, jagged cut split his eyebrow.

"Alina..." Dr. Evans choked out, his voice a wet, rattling wheeze. "Don't... don't tell them..."

"Shut up," the scarred guard barked, kicking the doctor sharply in the ribs. Dr. Evans curled into a tight ball, groaning in agony.

"Fifty-five," Lorenzo continued, his voice as smooth and steady as a ticking clock. His icy blue eyes didn't look at the dying man. They stayed locked onto me, tracking the frantic movement of my chest.

My mind was a chaotic, screaming static. He’s going to kill him. He’s actually going to blow his brains out right in front of me.

And the worst part? My hands were completely free behind my back. If I moved too fast, if I showed even a sliver of the twine I had just sawed through with broken glass, the guards would notice. I’d lose my only weapon. My only advantage.

I had to play the part of the helpless, bound prisoner, while a man's life dissolved by the second.

"Fifty," Lorenzo said.

"Stop! Just stop!" I cried out, my voice cracking with genuine terror as I pressed my back harder against the mattress. "I swear to you, I don't know anything! He’s just a doctor! He’s the chief of medicine at the hospital! Why are you doing this to him?!"

"He is the man who funneled your father’s stolen millions through fake medical equipment charities for the last forty-eight months," Lorenzo countered flatly. He didn't blink. He didn't even look angry. He just looked like an accountant balancing a ledger with a firearm. "Forty-five."

I looked down at Dr. Evans. His good eye flickered up to meet mine, filled with a terrifying mix of guilt and apology.

Oh my god. It’s true.

The kind old man who asked about my studies every morning wasn't just a doctor. He was part of the ghost network that helped my deadbeat father vanish into thin air. My entire life—every safe, boring day I thought I was living—was a lie orchestrated by a father who wasn't even there.

"Forty," Lorenzo’s baritone sliced through the silence.

"Dr. Evans, please!" I screamed, leaning forward, forgetting for a split second that my hands were supposed to be tied. I caught myself just in time, keeping my elbows tucked tightly behind my torso. "Tell him what he wants to know! Please, don't let him do this!"

"I... I can't, child," Dr. Evans whispered, a tear cutting a clean line through the dried blood on his cheek. "If I tell him... your father... your father dies..."

"Thirty-five."

Lorenzo’s finger slowly tightened on the trigger. The metallic click of the gun mechanism sounded like a bomb going off in the quiet room.

My heart hammered so violently against my ribs I thought it would crack the bone. Thirty-five seconds. I had thirty-five seconds before a man's skull was repainted onto my floor.

I couldn't just sit here. I couldn't watch another execution.

My eyes darted across the dark floor, searching. The shadows beneath the bed frame hid the largest shard of broken glass from the lamp I had smashed earlier. It was long, jagged, and stained with my own blood. It was barely six inches from my right foot.

If I grabbed it... if I lunged...

No. Lorenzo was a trained killer. He had three armed giants standing right behind him. If I moved, they’d put a bullet in me before my knees even left the mattress.

"Thirty," Lorenzo whispered.

"I’ll talk!" I yelled, the lie ripping from my throat before my brain could even process a script. "I’ll tell you where the ledger is!"

Lorenzo’s finger paused on the trigger. The chilling, dead expression on his face didn't change, but his eyes narrowed slightly, analyzing the desperate panic in my face.

"Twenty-five," he reminded me, his voice dropping an octave. "Choose your next words very carefully, Alina. If I smell a lie, I pull the trigger anyway."

My throat went entirely dry. I had absolutely no idea where the ledger was. I didn't even know what the damn thing looked like. But I needed him to move away from the doctor. I needed him close enough to strike, or far enough to buy Dr. Evans some time.

"It’s... it’s not in the city," I stammered, making my voice shake as much as possible to sell the fear. "My dad... he left me a safety deposit key. It’s hidden. In my apartment."

Lorenzo stared at me for a long, agonizing beat. The silence stretched so thin I could hear the wind howling against the bulletproof balcony doors outside.

Slowly, very slowly, Lorenzo lowered the silver pistol from Dr. Evans’s head.

A heavy wave of relief washed over me, but it lasted less than a second.

Lorenzo turned, handed the weapon to the scarred guard, and began walking directly toward the bed. He stepped over Dr. Evans’s groaning body like it was a pile of dirty laundry. His shadow stretched over me, completely blotting out the moonlight.

He leaned down, grabbing the iron frame of the headboard with both hands, trapping me beneath his massive frame once again. The sharp, clean scent of his sandalwood cologne mixed horribly with the raw metallic tang of Dr. Evans’s blood.

"A safety deposit key," Lorenzo murmured, his face inches from mine. The white bandage across his broken nose made him look rugged, dangerous, and utterly unhinged. "In your apartment."

"Yes," I breathed, trying to keep my hands perfectly still behind my back.

Lorenzo reached out, his gloved thumb rough against my bottom lip, forcing it down. "You’re a terrible liar, little mouse."

Before I could even blink, his hand slid down, gripping the collar of my shirt and violently yanking me forward off the mattress.

But as he pulled me body-to-body against his chest, his other hand swung around to grab my wrists behind my back—to check the ropes.

His fingers clamped down on bare, bleeding skin.

No twine. No knots.

Lorenzo froze. His icy blue eyes widened in a fraction of a second as the realization hit his brain.

He looked down.

My right hand was already moving. Slid out from behind my back, my fingers were wrapped tightly around the five-inch, razor-sharp shard of heavy lamp glass I had snatched from the floor while he was walking toward me.

Before he could call out, before his guards could draw their weapons, I drove the jagged glass straight toward his throat.