I lunged at him.
I had never been in a real fight in my life.
But for three years, I had secretly learned self-defense from the soldiers around Falcone’s estate.
Another game I had mistaken for boredom.
Another preparation I hadn’t known I was making.
My shoulder slammed into the doctor’s forearm.
His hand veered away from the button by barely an inch.
The glass of water hit the floor and shattered.
He was taller than me.
Heavier.
But he hadn’t expected a “well-behaved donor” to fight back.
For half a second, he froze.
Half a second was enough.
I grabbed Falcone’s heavy crystal ashtray from the desk and brought it down hard against the back of his skull.
He groaned and collapsed.
I stood over him, gasping.
Shaking all over.
Blood.
Blood seeped from the back of his head.
