The crack buys me a sliver. He reels, weight shifting off my hips for half a breath. I slide like I’m made of oil, a shoulder-first slither that scrapes skin but gets me out from under the press of his chest.
His hand snags fabric—my hem—and I kick backward viciously, heel connecting with kneecap. He curses, grip falters. I twist hard and go low, not away from the bed but under it, shoulder banging the frame, fingers clawing carpet until I can roll to the far side.
He recovers fast—too fast. His hand closes on my ankle, hot and iron. I flatten, brace my free foot against the baseboard, and wrench, not up, not back—twist. The pain bursts through me, making me breathless, as my ankle twists and snaps. But I knew it was coming. I had no choice.
The snap and sudden slack startles him enough that he lets go. Through my pain, I roll to the far side of the bed and drag myself up to the nightstand, reaching for the first drawer.
It won’t slide. My hands are slick and stupid. I yank like a madwoman. It gives an inch. I yank harder, and the drawer comes tumbling down, the contents falling around me like rain.
A dull thud next to my face gets my attention, and I grab for it.
Gabe is coming around the foot of the bed.
Faintly, I hear the sound of my name being called.
Cold metal kisses my fingertips. Relief rips through me so bright it’s almost pain. I hook two fingers and drag it closer, heavier than I remember, muzzle dragging against the rug.
Safety.Luca’s voice is in my head, infuriatingly calm:It’s loaded. Safety on. Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to use it.
I put my finger on the trigger.
I swing it around to him…
And look right into the barrel of his gun.
Chapter Forty One
Luca
The foyer is too still in the dark, no hum of the vents, no filter in the pool. Just moonlight scattered across the floor in patterns. I’ve got a gun in my hand and Roberto at my shoulder, his own drawn, his voice low and fast.
We move like we’ve done it a thousand times, because we have.
“Cut the main at the street,” he murmurs, low enough that the sound barely leaves his throat. “Gen shed didn’t pick up because the trip was inside the casing. Smart little bastards. Backup didn’t kick—someone pulled the transfer. Gate’s compromised. They got over the south wall and through the hedgerow.We’re clearing them as they surface—pairs, mostly. Don’t know numbers yet. They’re moving fast and quiet.”
“Russos,” I say.
He nods once. “Looks that way.”
There’s a distant thud, and a shout that’s cut off suddenly on the front lawn. Somewhere in the back, a dog barks. I taste metal under my tongue.
“How many of ours up?” I ask.
“Everyone,” Roberto says. “Nico and Vito are scouting. Caterina is in her room. You locked your door on the way out, so Elena is safe. Our boys have the perimeters in triangles. We’re taking them out quickly. They’re good, Luca. Not good enough.”
The whole family stayed the night: Caterina in the guest wing; Vito took a room that faces the drive, wanted to hear the engines if any got close; Nico couldn’t sleep, so he took guard duty; Antonio’s on the cameras, on the generator, on the comms; Giovanni handled security. Everyone here because I asked. Because after a day where my son and daughter were shot at, where the woman I loved felt the heat of a bullet on her face while carrying my child, I wasn’t letting anyone sleep anywhere else. It felt like control this afternoon. Now it feels like I’ve gathered everyone I love in the same place to be picked off.
“I should check on Elena,” I say.
“You said you locked the room down before you left, right?” Roberto asks.
“Yeah, but I should tell her what’s going on. Move her somewhere safe.”
“No one’s inside,” he says.
No one was inside ten seconds ago. Doesn’t mean anything.
“I’m going.”
