Chapter 22 · Cold Iron at My Brow

The barrel sat dead center on my forehead. Cold. Oiled. It smelled like the rest of this vault, like metal and old blood.

Ten minutes ago his hands had been all over me. Now one of them held a gun, and he didn't shake at all.

"Say it again," Lucian said. "Slowly."

"My mother didn't sell your brother."

His thumb stayed on the hammer. His shirt hung off my shoulders, still warm from his skin. The concrete under my bare feet was freezing. I locked my knees so he couldn't see them go.

The folder lay open on the gun rack between us. Silvio's folder. A morgue photo. A page of ledger columns. My mother's signature at the bottom, curled like a hook.

"Her handwriting," he said.

"Anyone can copy a signature."

"Her seal. Her routing numbers." He leaned in. His breath hit my cheekbone. "Five years I've been hunting the name that gave the order.