I recognized my ex-husband Marcus the second he stepped out of room 1402 at the Grand Monarch Hotel, holding hands with his new fiancé.
I pushed open the door to Duke’s private office. The room was bathed in the dim, amber glow of emergency lighting, making the rich mahogany and leather seem menacing. Duke sat behind his massive desk, a nickel-plated revolver resting on the polished surface, his hand hovering near it.
His eyes, usually cold and calculating, were now filled with a bitter amusement. He looked me up and down, a sneer twisting his lips.
“You should have stayed dead, Lisa,” Duke said, his voice a low growl. He rose slowly, the revolver now in his hand. “Your brother didn’t know when to shut his mouth, and it looks like you inherited his bad habits.”
I stood my ground, my hand resting protectively over my swollen stomach. The hidden microphone beneath my coat transmitted every word, every nuance, directly to Sergeant Jenkins’ listening post down the street. I could feel the baby stir, a soft flutter of life inside me.
“Malik knew what you were,” I said steadily, my voice unwavering despite the gun pointed at me. “You killed him because he wouldn’t let you sell out this family to cartels. You were betraying everything.”
Duke threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that scraped against my nerves. “Family? This city belongs to whoever has the stomach to take it. Marcus was too weak, Malik was too soft, and you’re just a girl in a maid’s uniform.”
He raised the revolver, pointing it directly at my chest, his finger tightening on the trigger. The cold metal glinted in the dim light.
Before he could pull the trigger, before he could complete his sentence—before he could ever answer the desperate, silent question burning in my mind about the location of Malik’s buried remains—a shattering crash erupted from the side of the office.
The ornate side door, usually concealed, burst inward, splintering from its hinges. Rogue Commander Hollis, his face a contorted mask of panic and rage, stumbled into the room, his service weapon drawn and smoking. He must have learned that Internal Affairs was on his tail, that his entire world was collapsing.
Seeing Duke about to confess syndicate details on open channels, details that would undoubtedly implicate Hollis, the corrupt commander screamed, “Shut up, Duke!”
He didn’t hesitate. Three rapid-fire bursts ripped through the air.
Duke Washington’s eyes widened in shock, then glazed over. He stumbled backward, propelled by the force of the bullets, collapsing across his mahogany desk. A dark, spreading crimson stain bloomed rapidly across his crisp white silk shirt, pooling against the polished wood.
I instinctively dived behind a heavy leather sofa, the sound of shattering office glass and splintering wood echoing around me. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, acrid and metallic. The confrontation, the reckoning I had sought, had been abruptly, brutally cut short. Duke was dead. And Malik’s secret was still buried with him.
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