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Lightning flashed as Lincoln's finger tightened on the trigger pressed against Ana's temple. Every muscle in my body locked, a lifetime of training crystallizing into this single moment.

My gun lowered a fraction of an inch.

Prometheus’ eyes gleamed with triumph. "I knew you couldn't do it."

That momentary hesitation was all he needed.

He shoved Ana aside and lunged toward me as thunder crashed overhead.

His gun discharged in a deafening crack.

Pain exploded along my ribs as the bullet grazed my side, hot and sharp.

I staggered backward, my weapon clattering to the floor as my hand pressed against the wound.

Prometheus was on me before I could recover, his fist connecting with my jaw hard enough to send me sprawling. My skull cracked against the marble floor, vision blurring at the edges.

"Pathetic," he spat, kicking my gun away.

Blood trickled down my side, soaking my shirt. Not fatal, barely more than a graze, but it burned like hellfire. I pushed myself up on one elbow, tasting copper where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.

"Lincoln, please," Ana begged from where she'd fallen against the wall. "What's happening? Who is this man?"

His face softened when he turned to her, the mask of concerned husband sliding back into place so seamlessly it was almost believable. Almost. But I'd seen beneath it now, seen the monster underneath.

"Nothing to worry about, my love," he assured her, keeping the gun trained on me. "Just a dangerous man from my past who's become... unstable."

Vincent's flashed through my mind. The memory of his hands on my skin, gentle where Prometheus’ had been controlling, accepting where Prometheus had only demanded perfection. Vincent, who'd never looked at me as a weapon, who'd seen the human beneath the killer, who'd loved both parts equally.

I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the screaming pain in my side. "Tell her the truth, Lincoln ." I spat his name like a curse. "Tell her how you found us both in Bosnia after soldiers murdered our parents. Tell her how you kept us apart for twenty-six years."

"Shut up!" Lincoln barked, his composure slipping momentarily.

“Tell her about The Pantheon. About what you really do for work.”

“I said shut up!” He swung at me.

I caught his fist. “Tell her about what you did to me in Milan.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed.

"He’s lying to you, Ana," I said shoving Prometheus back. "You’re not Serbian. You’re Bosniak. Serbian soldiers killed your parents and dragged you away."

Her eyes widened, her hand flying to her throat where a small pendant rested—a delicate silver feather. My heart stuttered at the sight of it. Our mother's necklace .

"Prasac," I said softly, the childhood nickname falling from my lips. "That's what I called you when you laughed too hard and snorted like a little piglet. You hated it, but I thought it was the best sound in the world."

Ana gasped, her fingers clutching the pendant tighter. "How could you possibly know—"

"Because I was there," I replied. "I was there when Mama gave you that necklace for your sixth birthday. I was there when you fell from the walnut tree behind our house and split your chin open."

I thought of Vincent again—how he'd held me through nightmares about Ana, how he'd helped me preserve the memories Prometheus had tried to erase. How he'd insisted the boy from Bosnia still lived inside me, despite everything.

Prometheus’ face contorted with rage. "That's enough!" he shouted, the gun wavering between us. "Ana, leave us. Now."

But Ana didn't move. I watched a change in her expression. Recognition fought through layers of carefully constructed falsehoods.

"Your eyes," she whispered, taking a step toward me. "They're... they're the same as mine."

"Because we're twins," I said, holding her gaze. "Born eight minutes apart. I came first, but you were always braver. You climbed higher, ran faster, laughed louder."

"He’s lying!" Prometheus growled, his voice rising. "This man is delusional. He’s insane!"

"Then how does he know about the snorting?" Ana interrupted, pulling against his grip. "I've never told anyone that I used to snort when I laughed too hard. Not even you. "

"The crawlspace," Ana whispered, her eyes distant with sudden recollection. "I have dreams... nightmares about hiding in a dark space while boots stomp overhead."

My breath caught. I hadn't known about the nightmares. Prometheus hadn't erased everything after all.

Prometheus’ control finally shattered. He backhanded Ana with enough force to send her stumbling against the wall. "I gave you everything! And this is how you repay me?”

The sight of him striking her ignited something primal inside me. Last night with Vincent flashed through my mind—the ice cubes against my skin, his calm voice bringing me back when panic threatened to consume me. His unwavering belief in me.

I lunged forward despite the gun, all thought of self-preservation forgotten. Prometheus swung the weapon toward me, but his attention was divided between us now. His shot went wide as I crashed into him, both of us slamming to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury.

We rolled across the marble, each fighting for control of the gun. He was stronger than he looked, his technique flawless as always. But I had something he didn't—twenty-six years of suppressed rage and the memory of Vincent's voice in my ear: "I see someone who survived."

The gun clattered away and his fist connected with my wounded side, sending white-hot pain radiating through my body. I gasped, momentarily stunned, and he seized the advantage. In one fluid motion, he flipped our positions, pinning me beneath him, the gun pressed against my forehead.

The position sent me spiraling into a flashback. Suddenly I wasn't thirty-two anymore but eighteen, pinned beneath him in that hotel suite, unable to move, unable to fight back despite all my training. My muscles locked, panic clawing up my throat as past and present merged in a nauseating spiral.

"I love you," Vincent had said just last night. He loved me, and he meant it.

His words cut through the panic, anchoring me to the present. Vincent, who'd seen me at my worst and still believed I was worth saving. Vincent, who'd taught me that my past didn't have to define my future. Vincent, whose love had given me the strength to finally face my demons.

"Go ahead," I managed through gritted teeth, something new steadying my voice. "Finish it. But she knows now. She'll never be yours again."

His eyes flicked to Ana, who had struggled to her feet, one hand pressed to her reddened cheek. In the other trembling hand, she held my gun.

"Ana," he called, his voice softening. "This man wants to take you away from me. He wants to hurt you. Undo all of our hard work. He wants to destroy our family.”

Ana raised the gun, aiming it first at me, then at him. Her hands shook violently, tears streaming down her face.

"Ana," I said softly. "Whatever you decide, it's okay. I failed you once. I won't blame you if you pull that trigger."

Prometheus held out his hand. “Ana, darling, give me the gun.”

She inhaled sharply. I closed my eyes, thinking of Vincent—his gentle touch, his quiet strength, the way he'd looked at me last night as if I were something precious instead of something broken. If I died now, at least I'd known that feeling once.

"Lincoln?" Her voice quavered.

"Yes, my love? "

"You said my parents died in the Bosnian war. That we were Serbian refugees."

"That's right."

"I remember the adhan," she said, eyes distant. “I remember the mosque. I remember the tree. Mama’s kitchen. Falling into the pond while trying to collect frog eggs. And I remember…” Her eyes flicked to me. “A boy. My friend. My brother. The other half of my soul. I remember everything.”

Prometheus’ expression hardened. "Give me the gun."

She stood frozen, the weapon trembling in her grip, her eyes wide pools of terror and confusion.

"Give me the fucking gun, you stupid fucking cow!"

The gunshot exploded through the penthouse like a thunderclap, merging with the storm outside. For a moment, everything froze: Lincoln's upraised hand, blood droplets suspended in the air between us, Ana's horrified expression as the weapon bucked in her hands.

Then reality crashed back in as Prometheus’ body jerked sideways, his weight shifting off me. His hand flew to his side where dark crimson bloomed across the pristine white of his shirt, spreading rapidly. His face contorted in disbelief.

"You shot me!" he screeched, his attention swinging to Ana.

That moment of distraction was all I needed. With his weight shifted and his focus on Ana, I finally had the opening I'd been waiting for. Twenty-six years of combat training crystallized into a single, fluid motion.

My hand shot down to my ankle. Fingers closed around the smooth grip of the ceramic blade, the familiar weight of it like an extension of my arm. The fog of pain and flashbacks cleared in an instant, my senses sharpening to predatory acuity.

Prometheus turned back to me just as I drove the knife into him .

Right into his fucking liver.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. His eyes widened, genuine shock replacing the smug superiority that had defined him for so long. His lips parted, a stuttering breath catching in his throat.

Then I twisted the knife.

A strangled noise tore from his throat as I yanked the blade free and drove it into him again. And again. And again.

Each thrust of the blade felt like cutting away a piece of the chains that had bound me for twenty-six years. Blood covered my hands, warm and slick, making the knife handle treacherous to grip. Still I stabbed, even as Prometheus’ struggles weakened, even as the light in his eyes began to dim.