Chapter 11 · Cornered In Marble

Twenty-two minutes.

The oven clock glowed green over Lucian's shoulder, and every number felt like a thumb on my windpipe.

I stood in his kitchen in a gown that still had a stranger's blood drying stiff along the hem. A glass vial sweated in my left fist. Silvio had pressed it into my palm during the waltz, smooth as a man handing over a mint.

Coat the cigar. Thirty minutes. Or Mia eats a bullet.

Lucian had his back to me. Jacket gone, sleeves shoved to the elbow, pouring bourbon like he owned the ocean slamming the glass behind him. He did.

The cigar sat on the marble island between us. One fat Cuban, right there.

"Quit staring at it." He didn't turn around. "You'll burn a hole."

My stomach dropped. "I'm not staring at anything."

"Your lips have been moving since the elevator." Ice clinked. "Counting. What are you counting, Bianca?"

I didn't answer.

Because here was the ugly math.