He yanks harder. "Don't fight me, Bianca. This is for us. For our future."
"I don't have a future with you."
"You will," he says, and his voice cracks on the words. "Once we're away from here, once we're somewhere safe, you'll remember why you loved me. Why we were good together."
I never loved him—not really. I know it now. I settled for stability and convinced myself it was enough, but he doesn't want to hear that, so I save my breath for what's coming.
The guard ahead of us, one of Caterina's men with a scar running down his jaw, opens the side door and cold air rushes in like a slap. I can see the jet beyond, stairs down, interior lights glowing warm and inviting like this is a vacation instead of a kidnapping.
This is it. My last chance.
I wait until Adrian's grip loosens, just slightly, just enough when he reaches for the door frame to steady himself. Then I run.
My hands are still bound behind me and my wrists scream where the zip ties cut into flesh, my mouth raw from where they ripped the tape off earlier to let me breathe. But I run anyway, because what else is there?
Ten feet. Fifteen. Twenty.
Freedom is just ahead—the main hangar doors are open and I can see the parking lot beyond, cars and maybe people, someone who can help. Someone who?—
Something slams into me from the side with enough force to knock the air from my lungs.
The guard, moving faster than someone his size should be able to move, catches me around the waist and we hit the concrete together. My shoulder takes the impact first, then my head, and the world explodes in white pain and ringing silence that makes everything feel distant and underwater.
Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but lie there while rough, impatient hands haul me up.
"Stupid bitch," the guard growls in my ear, breath hot and rank. "You really thought you'd make it?"
I try to answer but can't—my lungs won't work and everything hurts in ways I didn't know were possible.
"Bring her!" Adrian's voice cuts through the haze, high and panicked in a way that would be satisfying if I wasn't half-conscious. "We don't have time for this!"
The guard drags me back and my feet barely touch the ground before Adrian takes over, grabbing me and lifting me like I weigh nothing. He's sweating—I can smell it, sour and desperate, can feel how his hands shake where they grip me too tight.
"It's okay. It's going to be okay." He's talking fast now, words tumbling over each other. "We just need to get on the plane. Once we're in the air, they can't follow. We'll be safe. We'll start over. I'll take care of you the way I should have from the beginning. I'll?—"
He's not talking to me anymore, I realize. He's talking to himself, trying to convince himself this is still salvageable, that Caterina's plan is still working, that any of this will end well.
But I can feel it in the way his movements are too fast, too jerky, in the way he keeps looking over his shoulder like he expects Dante to materialize out of thin air. The plan is already failing.
He just doesn't see it yet.
Dante
The breach happens in three seconds flat.
Enzo's team takes the side entrance with flash grenades first—light and sound that turn the warehouse into chaos before his men pour through, weapons up, shots low and precise. Kneecaps. Shoulders. Nothing fatal, not yet at least.
Rafe's team splits at the back, half taking the corridor where Caterina's guards are positioned while the other half hits thestairwell to the catwalk, cutting off the high ground before anyone can use it against us.
I go through the main entrance with no subtlety, no strategy—just speed and violence and the singular focus of getting to Bianca before anything else can go wrong.
The guard holding Bianca sees me coming and reaches for his weapon, but Enzo's shot catches him first, hitting his arm. The bone shatters with a wet crack that echoes over the gunfire and his weapon skitters across concrete while he goes down screaming.
Adrian spins, and when he sees me, his face goes white in a way that would be satisfying if I had time to appreciate it.
He grabs Bianca—the bastard tries to use her as a shield, literally pulling her in front of him like she's armor instead of a person, like she's something expendable instead of everything that matters.
I cross the warehouse floor in seconds, each step measured and each breath controlled despite the rage burning through my veins. This is what I was made for—not boardrooms or politics or playing nice with men in suits, but this. Violence. Justice delivered with my own hands.
