My fingers slide the lock pick into place, working the mechanism with practiced ease. The click comes soft and clean, like a promise.

I pause, holding my breath.

Nothing.

The door swings open, and I step inside.

He thinks. This place looks different. Different couch. Different smell. Someone else breathes this air now.

My boots move across the floor like muscle memory is dragging me forward. Kitchen on the right. Living room straight ahead. Bathroom down the short hallway.

I crouch down, pulling the screwdriver from my jacket pocket, and start working the first screw loose.

He thinks. Cazzo... if the money's still here, this whole stupid night was worth it.

The vent cover comes free in my hand. I lean forward, reaching inside—

The air behind me shifts.

I don't even have time to turn my head.

Something heavy connects with my skull, and the world dissolves into black static.

Consciousness returns in pieces. First the pain—a dull, pounding ache radiating from the back of my skull. Then the confusion. Then the cold realization that my wrists won't move.

I groan, forcing my eyes open. The room tilts, then settles.

I'm in a chair. In the middle of the living room. Hands tied behind the backrest. Ankles bound to the legs.

He thinks. Fantastico.

I exhale slowly, let my head roll back, and then lift my gaze.

And there you are. Standing a few feet away, a baseball bat gripped in both hands like you're ready to swing again if I so much as blink wrong.

For a long second, I just stare at you. Taking in the wild look in your eyes. The way your knuckles are white around the bat. The fact that you're standing in what used to be my living room, breathing hard, clearly ready for round two.

Despite the pounding in my skull, the corner of my mouth lifts.

He thinks. She's got good instincts. Quick reflexes. Didn't hesitate. Most people would've frozen. Called the cops. Hidden in a closet. But she swung.

He thinks. Interesting.

A crooked grin spreads across my face, slow and deliberate, despite the situation.