Chapter 1. She stepped forward, grabbed his wrist, twisted it forcefully, hooked her leg behind his ankle, and slammed him down onto the carpet with a terrible thud.

“Can you actually fight?”

Mia Callaway smiled at Matteo Duca as if he had asked whether she knew how to open a door.

“Yes,” she said.

Matteo leaned back in the armchair, one eyebrow raised. “That was confident.”

“It was an easy question.”

He set the paperback facedown on his knee. “My father hires men who look like they were carved out of prison walls. You look like you apologize to furniture when you bump into it.”

“I do,” Mia admitted. “Furniture has feelings.”

Matteo laughed once, softly, like he hadn’t meant to.

That tiny sound almost made Mia forget she was standing in the house of a man people feared saying no to. Almost.

Then Matteo moved.

Fast.

The book dropped. His hand shot toward the inside of his jacket, not quite reaching a weapon, just testing her. Mia reacted before the rest of the room caught up. She stepped in, caught his wrist, twisted, hooked her foot behind his ankle, and sent him down into the carpet with a controlled thud.

Unfortunately, she also tripped over the edge of the rug and landed on top of him.

For one terrible second, they stared at each other.

Matteo was flat on his back. Mia’s knee pinned his wrist. Her hair had fallen partly out of its clip. His face was inches from hers.

“I meant to do that,” she said.

His mouth twitched. “The takedown or the dramatic collapse?”

“Both. Psychological warfare.”

He laughed again.

From the doorway, Carlo DeLuca did not laugh.

Neither did Lorenzo Duca, who had appeared silently behind him.

Mia got to her feet quickly and pulled Matteo up with her. Matteo adjusted his shirt, still smiling, while Lorenzo’s expression remained carved from stone.

“She put you on the floor,” Lorenzo said to his son.

“She did,” Matteo replied.

“And then fell on you.”

“That part was less traditional.”

Mia lifted a finger. “But effective.”

Lorenzo looked at her for a long moment. “You have twenty-two hours.”

“I thought I had twenty-two hours and forty minutes.”

“You have used forty minutes irritating me.”

Matteo glanced at Mia. “You should know that means he likes you.”

“I do not,” Lorenzo said.

“No one asked you, Papa.”

The word Papa softened something in the room for half a second. Then Lorenzo looked away, and the softness disappeared.

Mia noticed it. She noticed everything.

She noticed the slight tremor in Matteo’s left hand when his father entered. She noticed Carlo’s eyes shifting toward the east window every few seconds. She noticed one of the library’s security cameras blinking with a faint delay, as if the feed had been looped or interrupted.

Most people looked at power and saw the powerful.

Mia looked at power and saw where it leaked.

“Mr. Duca,” she said.

Lorenzo had already turned to leave. He stopped.

“The east camera is delayed.”

Carlo’s head snapped toward her. “It is not.”

Mia pointed at the polished brass clock on the shelf beneath it. “The second hand hit twelve three seconds ago. On the camera reflection, it hasn’t moved yet.”

Silence.

Matteo turned slowly toward the window.

Carlo crossed the room and checked the tablet clipped to his belt. His jaw tightened.

“It’s a minor system lag,” Carlo said.

Mia looked at Lorenzo. “Minor lags get people killed.”

Lorenzo said nothing.

Then the library window exploded.

Chapter 2 - The First Shot
Glass burst inward like ice under pressure.

Mia moved before anyone else did.

She slammed into Matteo’s side and drove him behind the leather sofa. A bullet tore through the air where his head had been less than a heartbeat earlier. Books jumped from the shelves. Wood splintered. Someone shouted from the hallway.

Matteo grabbed her arm. “Mia—”

“Stay down.”

A second shot cracked through the broken window.

Mia reached beneath her blazer and pulled her compact pistol free. Her hands were steady. Her feet had always been the unreliable part of her body. Her hands had never betrayed her.

Across the room, Carlo drew his weapon and barked orders into his radio. “East perimeter! Shooter on the bluff!”

Lorenzo had not ducked. He stood beside the desk, face pale with fury, as if the bullet had personally offended him.

Mia raised her voice. “Mr. Duca, down.”

His eyes cut to her.

“Now,” she snapped.

For one instant, every man in the room froze. No one spoke to Lorenzo Duca that way.

Then he slowly lowered himself behind the desk.

Matteo stared at Mia. “You just ordered my father to hide.”

“I ordered your father not to die stupidly.”

“I heard that,” Lorenzo said from behind the desk.

“Good,” Mia replied.

A third shot struck the wall above them. Mia tracked the angle, counted the delay, listened to the echo. Not close. Not far. Bluff line. Elevated. Suppressed rifle, professional hands.

But something was wrong.

The shooter had a perfect line into the library. Too perfect. That meant someone had known Matteo would be here. Someone knew his habit of reading in the east wing after arrival. Someone knew the camera had been compromised before Mia noticed it.

That kind of information did not come from outside the gates.

It came from inside.

“Matteo,” she said quietly, “does everyone know you come here to read?”

His eyes darkened. “No.”

“Who does?”

He hesitated.

That was answer enough.

The shooting stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Security men thundered through the hallway. Carlo crossed toward the shattered window.

Mia grabbed a heavy silver letter opener from the desk and threw it.

It struck Carlo’s wrist before he reached the curtain. His gun dropped to the carpet.

He spun on her, face red. “Are you insane?”

“Don’t stand in front of a window after a shooter stops firing,” Mia said. “That is when they wait for movement.”

Lorenzo rose slowly behind his desk.

Carlo’s humiliation was sharp enough to taste.

Matteo looked from Carlo to Mia, then toward the broken window. “She’s right.”

Carlo picked up his gun, jaw working. “I know my job.”

“Then do it better,” Mia said.

The room went silent again.

This time, Matteo did not laugh.

He watched Mia with a different expression now. Not amusement. Not flirtation. Something closer to attention.

Lorenzo stepped around his desk, glass crunching beneath his polished shoes. He looked at the hole in the window, then at the camera, then at his son.

Finally, his eyes settled on Mia.

“One night,” he said again.

But this time, it did not sound like an insult.