Page 68

Then I hear it. A lazy, drawling voice. Ivan Peterson. We watched his interviews—his smug tone etched into my memory.

Sam whistles as Peterson clears the last step. Raul shifts, silent and sure, kicking his bucket across the tiles and pulling the caution sign out of his cart. Sam’s already near the elevators, fiddling with his mop, waiting for the bait to bite.

Peterson pauses, phone in hand, clearly annoyed.

“Sir?” Sam calls out, his voice mild. “Can you give me a hand? The bucket’s stuck, and I need to swap the water.”

Peterson glares.

“Do youhaveany idea who I am?”

“I do. That’s why I’m asking. Just need an inch. Won’t take a second.” Peterson sighs like it’s the hardest decision he’s ever made, then steps forward.

Sam moves fast. As Peterson leans in, Sam grabs his collar, spins him, and slams him into the chrome wall. His cheek hits with a crack that echoes.

“Hey!” a voice shouts from the far end.

Donahue. Raul’s moving.

“Come here, you piece of shit!” Raul snarls, grabbing Donahue’s arm and slamming him into the bathroom door.

The door bursts open with a bang as Raul shoves him inside.

“Make it quick,” Sam mutters, yanking the caution signs into place. “We’re on the clock.”

I step into the elevator, staring at Peterson lying crumpled on the floor. His expensive tie is crooked. His combed-over hair is a mess.

“You bankrolled Donahue’s little war,” I say in a low voice. “Meeting you isn’t a pleasure. It’s overdue.”

“Who—?” he gasps, trying to rise. I crouch beside him.

“I’m the last face you’ll ever see.”

Rage hits like a wave. No hesitation. I lock both hands around his throat. He squirms, eyes wide with disbelief. He doesn’t think something like this can happen to him, but I know it can. And I’m not letting go.

He fights, slamming his fists against my arms. I don’t budge. My fingers tighten. He gasps for air, tongue pushing past his lips.

“Wait—please—I can pay?—”

“One death,” I growl, squeezing harder.

He bucks, his face turning red, then purple. His legs kick weakly. I yank his head up—then slam it down hard. The crack echoes off the chrome. I don’t flinch. He gurgles. The fight drains from his limbs.

One last twitch. One last gasp. Gone.

Sam’s voice breaks through the haze.

“Good. Now help me get him out. We can’t hold the elevator forever.” I exhale heavily, still panting.

My heart pounds like a war drum. I shift around the body, grab his arms. Sam takes the ankles. Together, we drag the bastard into the nearest bathroom, adrenaline roaring in my veins.

Upstairs, the fundraiser keeps buzzing—music, laughter, toasts to things they don’t understand. Down here, death hums quiet and sure. As I step back into the hall, Raul meets me with a grim nod.

“Is it done?”

“Yeah.” My voice is steady.

“What about you?”