Victor's POV
My wrists burned against the zip ties. Three hours of subtle struggling had only made them tighter, the plastic cutting into my skin. The room they'd put us in—some fancy study with books nobody had touched in years—felt too hot, too small.
Sofia sat across from me, tied to an antique chair worth more than most people made in a month. Her face gave away nothing, but her eyes kept darting to the window whenever gunfire crackled outside.
"Your brother's men?" I asked.
She shook her head slightly. "What's left of them. Costa's inner circle never accepted his death."
"Loyal to the end."
"Unlike some people's employees," she replied, arching an eyebrow.
I laughed despite everything. "Touché."
Reeves paced by the door, phone pressed to his ear,
