Luca moved with the silent, practiced efficiency of a man who had spent decades surviving gangland warfare. He ripped a wall panel open near the master suite entrance, furiously punching a sequence of encrypted override codes into the penthouse’s proprietary security hub.

“I’ve severed the internal camera feeds to the lobby and the service elevators,” Luca muttered, sweat beading on his forehead as his fingers flew across the keypad. “From the main security desk downstairs, this entire floor will look completely dark and offline. They won't know if we’re dead, sleeping, or barricaded.”

“And if they decide to check manually?” I asked, sliding a rolling medical supply cart directly behind the heavy oak double doors as a makeshift barricade.

“Then they’ll have to get through two inches of solid oak, reinforced steel framing, and me,” Luca replied coldly, pulling a compact, suppressed Sig Nexter pistol from his holster and checking the magazine with a practiced clack-click.

On the bed, Gabriel was attempting to drag himself upright, his massive shoulders shaking with violent tremors as the fever wracked his skeletal frame.

“Stop moving, Mr. Moretti,” I commanded, rushing back to his side and firmly pushing his shoulders back against the pillows. “Every calorie you burn fighting me is a calorie your immune system needs to fight the sepsis.”

“I... I need to sit up,” Gabriel choked out, his chest heaving as he fought for air. “If Vincent’s men breach... I won't die lying down like an invalid.”

“You won't die at all if you shut up and let me work,” I snapped, grabbing a sterile syringe and drawing a precise dose of broad-spectrum antibiotic and antipyretic medication from a glass vial. I tapped the syringe with my fingernail, flicking away the tiny air bubbles. “You built an empire on paranoia, Gabriel, but you missed the knife in your own cousin's hand. Now let me do my job, or your dramatic last stand is going to end before the door even opens.”

Gabriel stared at me, genuinely startled by my lack of deference. For a man who commanded absolute, trembling obedience from everyone in his orbit, being dressed down by a thirty-six-year-old nurse in scrubs was a jarring novelty. Slowly, a bitter, grim ghost of a smile touched the corner of his bruised lips.

“You’ve got ice in your veins,” he whispered, offering no further resistance as I slid the needle smoothly into his IV port.

“No, I just have low patience for men who bleed on my shift,” I replied, securing the tape over the catheter line.

Suddenly, a dull, metallic thud echoed from the hallway outside the double doors.

Luca froze instantly, raising his pistol and stepping into a tactical stance near the corner of the bed.

Thud.

It wasn't a knock. It was the heavy, deliberate shoulder-check of someone testing the structural integrity of the oak doors.

“They’re here,” Luca whispered, his eyes locked on the entryway.

I checked my watch. 1:15 AM.

“How many men does Vincent usually travel with for internal hits?” I asked, keeping my voice down to a bare murmur.

“Four to six professionals,” Luca replied, his jaw tight. “Clean, quiet, execution-style. They wouldn't use guns on the fifty-eighth floor unless they had to—too much noise, too much risk of police attention. They’ll use silenced sidearms or blades.”

Thud. Crack.

The sound of splintering wood echoed through the master suite. The brass deadbolt was holding, but the frame was beginning to buckle under sustained, coordinated force.

“Luca,” I said quickly, my mind racing through the medical inventory on the supply cart. “Give me your belt.”

Luca glanced back in confusion. “My what?”

“Your belt. And the heavy rubber tubing from the intravenous drainage bag.”

Realization flickered in his eyes. Without asking questions, he unbuckled his leather belt in a single fluid motion and tossed it to me, along with the sterile rubber hosing from the cart.

“What are you planning?” Gabriel asked, his voice growing stronger as the antipyretic medication began to cool his burning bloodstream.

“We aren't going to out-gun six professional hitmen in a gunfight, and we certainly can't move you down the stairs in your current condition,” I said, working rapidly with my hands. I tied the rubber hosing and the leather belt into a sturdy, makeshift tourniquet-and-pulmonary restraint rig, attaching it securely to the heavy brass footboard of the bed frame. “So we’re going to turn your ICU room into a very unpleasant biological hazard zone.”

Luca grinned grimly, catching my drift. He grabbed an empty, heavy glass IV pole from the corner and wedged its base firmly beneath the broken door handle, angling it at a forty-five-degree angle against the hardwood floor.

“Buy us ten seconds,” Luca said softly.

Another violent crash shook the double doors. The wood splintered violently around the lock housing, and a thick metal crowbar punched clean through the panel, gouging a jagged hole in the center of the entryway.

Luca didn't hesitate. He raised his suppressed pistol and fired two rapid, muffled shots directly through the wooden panel toward the handle.

A muffled cry of pain echoed from the hallway, followed by a heavy body hitting the floor outside.

“One down,” Luca whispered, stepping back as the crowbar was violently yanked out of the wood.

“They’re switching to a hydraulic jack,” I said, looking at the way the door frame was warping outward under immense pressure. “We have less than thirty seconds before that barrier comes down entirely.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw, his massive hands gripping the sides of the mattress so hard his knuckles turned white. With a low, ferocious growl born of pure, unadulterated rage and survival instinct, he threw his upper body forward, using every ounce of his remaining strength to drag his paralyzed lower half toward the edge of the bed.

“Gabriel, no—!” I shouted, rushing forward to stop him.

“Help me up,” he commanded, his voice dripping with lethal authority. “If they want the king, they’re going to have to walk through hell to get him.”