It swung open, and Eli slammed his shoe into the guard’s chest, sent him reeling back into the wall. Eli caught him by the tie before he could

fall, drew the guard’s holstered gun, and pressed it tight to his chest to muffle the shots.

Eli eased the body back onto the seat.

It had been a long time since he killed a human. But forgiveness would have to wait.

He returned to Stell’s side, and presented the director with the stolen gun, low and easy, as if it were a handshake among friends. Stell looked at him with bald surprise. They both knew that Eli was the one holding the weapon, Eli the one with his finger near the trigger. But he spun the weapon in his hand, offering Stell the grip instead of the barrel.

After a pause, Stell took the gun, and Eli turned and plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray. He might as well enjoy the party.

* * *

“LAST call for second thoughts,” murmured June. “Or second call for last ones.”

Rain drummed on the roof of the town car as it pulled up outside the Old Courthouse.

“Don’t be somber,” said Marcella. “It’s a party.”

“It’s madness,” countered June.

Marcella’s lips twitched. “Good thing there’s method in it.”

It was a gamble, of course. A risk. An ambitious play.

But she used to tell Marcus, the world wasn’t made for the faint of heart.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And if Marcella’s plan went up in flames, well, she’d take the whole damn city with her.

As she stepped out of the car, the broad umbrellas appeared again, ushering her to the waiting bronze doors of the Old Courthouse.

From inside, Marcella could hear the clink of ice and crystal glasses, the murmur and melody of an eager crowd. She brought her hand to the polished metal, splayed her fingers across the surface, gold nails gleaming, as June and Jonathan took their places behind her.

Marcella smiled.

“Showtime.”

* * *

MITCH’S car screeched to a stop in front of the Old Courthouse.

Pain lanced through Victor’s side as he got out, but he didn’t dare turn it down, not with the episode building in his bones.

“Victor—” started Mitch.

He glanced back. “Remember what I said. Find Syd, and leave.”

Victor climbed the short stone steps, pushed open the bronze doors, his free hand wrapped as casually as possible across his ribs. He handed his invitation to the suit at security, who hesitated at the blood flecking the cream paper.

He looked at Victor, who stared coldly back, leaning on the man’s nerves as he did until the discomfort registered on his face.

The security waved him through.