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.

Vincent didn't waste time with words. He grabbed Tommy by the lapels of his ruined suit, slammed him hard against the drywall, and drove the butt of his pistol into the side of Tommy’s head.

Tommy crumpled instantly, sliding down the wall into a limp heap on the floor.

"Clear," Vincent panted, turning back toward Nema. He looked her up and down, checking for injuries. "You okay?"

"I think my ears are still ringing from the flashbang," Nema said, lowering the carbine as her hands finally began to shake. "Is he dead?"

"Unfortunately for him, no," Vincent said darkly. "Mr. Vasquez wants to talk to him personally."

Before they could move toward the basement stairs, heavy footsteps echoed from the main foyer below. A deep, authoritative voice rang up through the stairwell.

"Vincent! Nema!"

Dom Vasquez appeared at the bottom of the stairs, flanked by four heavily armed estate guards. He looked up, his eyes scanning the smoke-filled corridor until they locked onto Nema standing safely beside Vincent.

Dom let out a long, heavy breath—the first sign of vulnerability Nema had ever seen from him.

"Are you both unharmed?" Dom asked, taking the steps two at a time.

"We're fine," Vincent replied, gesturing toward the unconscious form of Tommy on the floor. "The perimeter breach is contained. The asset is secured."

Dom walked over, looking down at the man who had been his closest confidant for seven years. There was no anger in Dom’s face now—only a cold, absolute disappointment.

"Get him up," Dom ordered the guards. "Take him down to the vault. We’re going to have a very long conversation about Arthur Vance."

Dom turned his attention back to Nema. He stepped closer, noticing the plaster dust coating her hair and the soot smudged across her cheek.

"I told you," Dom said softly, his voice dropping below the ambient hum of the emergency generators, "this city is a battlefield. You should have taken the envelope and run."

Nema looked up at him, her chin tilted defiantly, refusing to shrink back.

"And I told you, Mr. Vasquez," Nema replied, her voice steady and clear. "I'm done running. If Vance wants a war, let's see how he likes dealing with a waitress who knows how to spot rat poison."