Nia —

Lucas De Santo’s estate, minutes after the gunfight

“It’s handled,” Lucas said, and shut the door with that slow, deliberate click that told me nothing was actually handled.

His chest was slick with sweat. Blood—someone else’s—spattered his ribs. The gun hung loose at his side. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to grab him or shove him away.

“Handled how?” I asked.

His eyes cut to the window. “Put the robe on. Stay out of sight.”

He didn’t wait for an ...