The smoke clawed at Noa’s throat like it wanted to strangle him from the inside out. Every breath was hot, bitter, scratching at his lungs until he couldn’t hold back the violent coughs shaking his chest. His ears were still ringing from the blast that had ripped the safehouse apart, but even through the deafening buzz Valente’s voice carried, clear, sharp, smug as poison.

“Bring me the boy,” Valente called, his tone laced with mockery that cut deeper than the smoke. “Or we burn the ...