“Elena—” Luca says, reaching.
“I need—” The word scrapes. I swallow and try again. “I need a minute.”
He stills. “Okay.”
“I’m fine,” I say, which is not true, not even close. “I just… I can’t—” I shake my head because I can’t form it. I can’t stand in the middle of his house and dissolve. Not with everyone listening for the next order. Not with my heart still trying to punch through my ribs.
“Do you want me—” he starts.
“No,” I say too fast, too sharp. I soften it. “No. Thank you. I just need—privacy.”
His eyes search mine, dark and holding. He nods once. His hand lowers without touching. “I’m right here.”
I nod, because saying anything else will undo me. I step around him, fingers slipping once on the curve of the newel post as I take the stairs.
My pulse is still in my ears, a hard drum that won’t quit. I fix my eyes on the landing, on the strip of runner at the top, on a doorknob I can wrap my hand around and close between me and everything else.
Behind me, the foyer murmurs back to life. I don’t look. I keep climbing.
At the top, I turn down the corridor and let my feet take me toward the nursery. I don’t think about anything except the distance between me and a closed door. I reach it, slip inside, and close it with a soft click.
I lean my forehead to the cool wood for one breath, then another, then push away and walk deeper into the quiet.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Luca
I watch her take the stairs like she’s outrunning something. She doesn’t look back. The banister takes the brush of her fingers at the turn, and then she’s gone.
I want to follow. I don’t.
Caterina is at my elbow, breath steadying, face pale under the calm. I put a hand on her shoulder; she leans into it for one beat, then straightens.
“You hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Dizzy? Ringing in your ears?” I scan her anyway, pupils fine, stance square.
“I’m fine, Papà,” she says, voice a notch hoarse. “Elena—”
“I know.” I force my hand to drop. “Go get water. Sit for five minutes. I’ll send someone to look at that scrape on your wrist.”
She glances down like she hadn’t felt it. A thin line where brick kissed skin. That small line is reason enough to kill them all.
“Okay.”
Nico steps through the door behind them and closes it softly with his foot, already calculating. His jacket is open, his eyes are moving, securing entrances in his mind.
“Report,” I say.
“Two shooters,” he answers. “Primary from the second-floor east window, three units in from the alley mouth. Secondary on the roofline above the same building, likely a spotter who took a chance when we moved. We broke line of sight fast enough, the second didn’t track. No injuries on our side.”
“Witnesses?” I ask.
“Plenty,” he says. “Sal and Marc stayed to scrub what they could—cash to the manager, friendly words with the host, a few numbers collected for follow-up.”
I nod once. “Weapons?”
