The Cup That Was Never Meant to Be Drunk Nobody warned a man carrying a gun that his best friend was trying to kill him.

The study was vast, dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a massive mahogany desk that looked heavy enough to anchor a ship. Dom gestured toward a sleek leather armchair facing the desk. Nema hesitated for a moment before sitting down, keeping her canvas bag clutched in her lap like a tactical vest.

Dom walked over to a wet bar in the corner of the room. "Coffee?" he asked, his back to her.

"Water," Nema said sharply. "And preferably not from a mug."

Dom chuckled, pouring a glass of mineral water from a crystal pitcher and setting it down on the edge of the desk within her reach. He didn't sit behind the desk; instead, he leaned against the front edge, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Let's talk about what you saw in the diner," Dom said, his tone turning clinical and cold.

"I saw a man try to poison your coffee," Nema said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "White powder from a wax paper wrapper. He stirred it twice. He watched you come back from the vestibule, and he sat there waiting for you to drink it."

"And why did you stop it?" Dom asked, tilting his head slightly. "People in your neighborhood—in your line of work—learn quickly that minding your own business is the only way to stay alive. Why risk your neck for a complete stranger wearing a navy coat?"

Nema looked down at her battered sneakers, then back up at him. "Because I grew up watching people look away when bad things happened. My father looked away until it destroyed our family. I swore to myself that if I ever had a chance to stop a predator in the act, I wouldn't pretend I was blind."

The room fell completely silent. Dom stared at her, his expression unreadable, searching her face for any sign of hesitation, fear, or deceit. What he found seemed to satisfy him, because a subtle shift occurred in his posture. The razor-sharp edge of suspicion softened just a fraction.

"Tommy has been my right hand for seven years," Dom said quietly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "He managed my supply lines. He handled my accounts. He sat at my table."

"And he decided he wanted your seat," Nema added bluntly.

"Or he was bought by someone who wants me out of the way permanently," Dom corrected. He pushed off the desk and walked over to a secure wall monitor, tapping the screen with his finger.

High-definition surveillance footage flickered to life. It showed Tommy stepping out of Frank’s Diner into the sleet-slicked street, climbing into a matte-black sedan driven by an unknown individual. The license plate was blurred, but the silhouette of the driver was unmistakable.

"That's Arthur Vance's vehicle," Nema whispered, her eyes widening as she recognized the corporate logo she had seen on financial newsletters at her previous temp job.

Dom turned sharply. "You know Vance?"

"I know of him," Nema said, swallowing hard. "Everyone in the city knows Arthur Vance. Real estate mogul, political donor, and owner of half the downtown skyline. If Tommy is working for Vance, you don't just have a rat in your house, Mr. Vasquez. You have a wrecking ball."

Dom walked back toward her, his face hardening into an expression of pure, cold steel. "Vance wants my shipping contracts. He wants my port access. And apparently, he thought he could bypass the negotiations by putting a bullet—or a slow poison—in my coffee."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick manila envelope, sliding it across the desk toward Nema.