"Hey! Anyone?" I called louder.
Silence. Bloody hell. I drew the curtain and looked down. A few black sedans had parked at the building's entrance—dark-tinted windows, engines off. Not Igor's cars. Not his men's.
My pulse spiked. Then a dull thud came from the corridor, like something heavy hitting the floor.
Then—
Bang!
A gunshot ripped the air, and my blood went cold.
"Mom?" Stella looked up, bewildered. "What's that outside?"
"It's okay, baby." My voice shook, but I forced calm. "Come here, quickly."
She dropped the pencil and ran to me. I scooped her up.
More shots cracked outside—rapid, chaotic.
"I'm scared." Stella buried her face in my neck and clutched my shirt.
"It's okay, honey." I kissed her forehead, but my eyes never left the door. I needed a weapon. Anything.
I ran to the kitchen and pulled the biggest chef's knife from the block. The blade flashed under the light. The shooting drew closer. I heard voices in Italian, then screams. Heavy footsteps thudded down the hall.
The open-plan kitchen gave me a sliver of cover—there was a pantry in the corner with boxes piled beside it. I crouched and shoved us into the tight space between the boxes and the cabinet.From that angle, I could peer through the breakfast bar into the living room; it was a hiding spot no one would expect.
"Shh," I whispered into Stella's ear. "Don't make a sound, okay?"
She nodded hard and clamped her hands over her mouth.
Footsteps stopped outside. One second, two, three. Time stretched. My heart hammered like a war drum. My palms slickened on the knife handle.
Then came a crash—someone barreled through the door, the frame splintering.
Men flooded in. Black suits, guns raised. The leader was at least six feet three, with shoulders like a wall. Their shoes left dark red marks on the floor—blood. My stomach dropped.
Igor's guards were dead.
Through the slit, I watched the leader scan the room.
"Find them," he barked in Italian.
They fanned out. I held my breath, Stella pressed to my side. Footsteps angled toward the bedrooms. Doors were kicked open, closets rifled.
"Bedroom clear!" a young voice shouted.
"Bathroom clear!" another called.
They returned to the living room. The leader checked the window, then looked toward the kitchen. My throat closed. He started toward us. Closer. Closer. I squeezed the knife until my knuckles ached.
He opened the cabinet under the sink, then stopped in front of the pantry. His polished shoe was less than a meter away. I dared not breathe. I could feel Stella trembling and covered her small hand with my free one so she wouldn't make a sound.
He began moving boxes. The first slid aside, then the second.
We were found. I swung the knife at him. He dodged. His eyes were ice.
"Put down the knife, ma'am. Or I can't guarantee the kid stays safe."
