Dante had survived long enough to understand one rule better than most men.
Panic killed faster than bullets.
The elevator chimed again.
He slipped the divorce envelope inside his jacket and quietly moved away from the sunroom door.
Inside, Patricia had heard it too.
Her face lost its color.
Serena noticed.
“Who’s coming?”
Patricia grabbed her handbag.
“You should have listened to me.”
“Mother?”
“You’ve made your choice.”
Patricia hurried toward the opposite entrance of the sunroom.
Serena stepped in front of her.
“What did Dad do?”
Patricia hesitated.
That hesitation answered everything.
Serena whispered, “He sent them here.”
Patricia’s silence confirmed it.
“To kill Dante?”
“And anyone who chooses Dante.”
Serena stared at her mother.
“Including me?”
Patricia looked away.
The elevator doors began opening.
Dante drew his pistol.
Two men stepped into the hallway.
They wore the uniforms of his private security company.
Dante recognized both.
Neither belonged on the residential floor.
The first man reached toward his jacket.
Dante moved before he could draw.
He seized the man’s wrist, slammed it against the marble wall, and knocked the weapon loose. The second attacker lunged forward.
Dante drove his shoulder into him.
The struggle was fast, brutal, and controlled.
A suppressed shot struck the wooden paneling.
Serena screamed inside the sunroom.
“Dante!”
That single word was different from every time she had ever spoken his name.
There was no distance in it.
Only terror for him.
Dante forced the second attacker against the wall and disarmed him.
Footsteps thundered from the elevator.
More were coming.
Dante opened the sunroom door.
Serena spun toward him.
Her expression went blank.
Patricia looked as though she had seen a ghost.
Dante stood in the doorway, weapon lowered but ready.
Neither spoke.
She knew.
He had heard everything.
“How long?” Serena whispered.
“Long enough.”
Pain crossed her face.
“Dante—”
“Later.”