The penthouse went still.
Tristan’s gun was up, finger resting lightly on the trigger. His breath slowed, his pulse steady. Every instinct in his body told him this was a setup.
Another step.
Whoever was inside wasn’t in a hurry. They wanted him to know they were here.
Amilia pressed her back against the wall, her own weapon drawn. Chloé, still kneeling beside Rosalind, didn’t move—her sharp gaze locked on the door.
A shadow shifted in the hallway.
Then—a voice.
Low. Controlled. Familiar.
“I’d put that down if I were you, Bajusz.”
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
Nicholas Rivera.
A slow, deliberate smirk curled at Tristan’s lips. Of course.
He lowered his gun half an inch. Not enough to be careless—but enough to acknowledge that this was a different kind of fight.
“I was
