"Not too close," she warns me. "Stay where I can see you and watch the room too."
I stop, staring at her. Who the hell is this woman? How did I not see this?
"Move to the door," she instructs. "Slowly. Open it. Check the hallway for threats."
I do exactly what she says, my body moving on autopilot.
The hallway is clear.
She starts backing toward me, dragging the man with her. "Stay behind me. If anyone moves, I want to see it coming."
We move like that—slowly, carefully, every step measured.
Roberto and his men watching, calculating whether they can make a move.
At the door, Liana pauses. "Tell your men outside to back off," she says. "Or your nephew dies in the stairwell."
Roberto pulls out his phone and makes a call. "Fall back," he says into it. "Let them go."
“Hands high—no one steps onto the stairs,” Liana orders. She waits, listening intently for any sounds of movement, then nods. "Let's go."
We move into the hallway, then down the metal stairs. Each step clangs loudly. At every moment, I expect gunfire. Expect this fragile situation to fall apart into chaos.
But it doesn't.
At the ground floor, Liana stops. "This is where we part ways," she says almost pleasantly. Then she brings the gun down hard on the back of his head.
He drops hard, unconscious before he hits the floor.
"Run," she says to me.
Chapter 23: Liana
We run down the dock, our footsteps pounding against concrete. Past towering shipping containers that cast long shadows. Away from Warehouse Twelve and the men inside.
My wrists are raw and bleeding, the pain sharp with every movement. My legs shake with exhaustion and leftover adrenaline.
But I don't stop running. Can't stop.
Behind us, I hear shouting—the Benedettis regrouping, deciding whether to follow us or cut their losses.
"This way!" Santino grabs my arm firmly, pulling me toward a black car parked in the shadows between two containers.
He opens the passenger door and shoves me inside. Then he's in the driver's seat, engine roaring to life. Tires screech as we peel away from the warehouse, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.
I twist in my seat, looking back through the rear window.
No one's following. Not yet, at least.
"Are they—"
"We're clear." Santino's hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his grip so tight I can see the tendons standing out. "For now."
I slump back against the seat as the reality of what just happened crashes over me. I start shaking uncontrollably.
The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving nothing but pain in its wake. Everything hurts—my wrists where the zip ties cut in,my shoulder where they threw me in the van, my head where someone hit me.
"Your father is with my men. A few blocks from here. We'll meet them—"
