Marco left.
I stood in the empty apartment, hand covering my stomach.
"Stella." I suddenly said the word aloud. "If you're a girl, I'll call you Stella."
Outside the window, the Tuscany night sky was full of stars.
I stared at those stars, thinking of Igor. Thinking of his face, his voice, his touch on my body. Thinking of that snowy night, the things he said, how my heart completely shattered in that moment.
Then I thought of Marco's words just now, that burning look in his eyes, the way he said "all these years I've been" with such hesitation.
No. That wasn't possible.
Marco was just my friend, my family. He took care of me because we grew up together, because he was kind, because...
Because what?
I shook my head, not letting myself think further. Now wasn't the time for this. Now I needed to think about this child, about my future, about how I was going to survive in this foreign country.
Chapter Nine
Elena
Bang!
The first shot rang out, and I figured it was just a champagne cork popping. But then came the second, the third, and the screams. The hotel doors flew open with a crash, and five or six guys in black tactical gear and ski masks stormed in, guns drawn.
"Everyone down!" one of them bellowed in English with a thick Italian accent. "Move and I'll drop you!"
Panic hit like a wildfire—guests scrambling everywhere. My tray hit the floor, champagne flutes shattering in a spray of glass and fizz.
"Down! Now!"
My legs felt like lead, rooted to the spot. I stared at those masked bastards, the black holes of their barrels staring right back. My brain went totally blank.
"You deaf or what?" One of them stomped toward me, jamming his gun barrel against my forehead. "I said get down!"
That's when an arm snaked around my waist from behind, yanking me sideways hard. The shot cracked past my ear, close enough to singe a few hairs, and punched into the wall behind me.
"Don't move," a voice murmured in my ear, low and gravelly with just a hint of Russian. "Stick with me."
Before I could even process it, that arm locked around me like a vice, pulling me toward the side door.
"Hey! You two!" the guy snarled. "Stop!"
He fired, the blast deafening. I screamed, instincts screaming to drop and curl up, but his grip wouldn't let me. He pressed my head to his chest—I could feel his heartbeat, steady as a goddamn metronome.
Then another shot cracked out. His. Two of the thugs crumpled, dead before they hit the carpet.
"Move," he said, half-dragging me along. I finally twisted enough to look up at him.
Tall. Freakishly tall. Had to be six-four easy. Dark brown hair slicked back, sharp jawline cutting through the dim light. Eyes like deep green pools in some forgotten woods.
He was in a tailored black suit that screamed money, a ring glinting on his pinky. And in his right hand? A sleek silver pistol, still smoking.
"Stop!" Another goon swung his gun our way.
I didn't even have time to gasp. The stranger fired once—clean through the guy's chest. Blood misted out like a busted hydrant, and he folded like wet cardboard. We kept pushing toward the door. Almost there. Then one lunged from the side, barrel locked on us.
