Three shots crack the dark—one, two, three—and a crash answers them, wood splintering, something heavy toppling, the floor shuddering under my cheek.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for pain that doesn’t come.
Am I hit? Did he—?
“Elena!” Luca’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, rough with fear. “Elena, look at me.”
I open my eyes.
It’s still dark, but I know him by the sound of his breath, the shape of him kneeling in front of me, the heat of his hands when they cup my face. His thumb finds my cheekbone, careful, and he eases the weight of the gun out of my grip. I hadn’t realized I was still holding it so hard my fingers ache.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs, voice calm and gentle. “It’s all right now. I’ve got you.”
I drag air into my lungs and risk a glance past his shoulder.
Roberto is a darker shadow, standing over another one on the floor. He kicks Gabe’s gun away with the side of his shoe, crouches, and presses two fingers to the side of his neck.
“Is he—?” My voice is threadbare.
“Yes,” Roberto says, clipped, confirming what my body already knows from the way the room suddenly feels empty of threat.
“Don’t,” Luca says gently, shifting so his shoulder blocks my line of sight. “Don’t look.”
“I have to.” My mouth is dry. “I need to make sure.”
He hesitates, then bends and kisses my hair, a fleeting press. “He’s done,” he says. “You hear me? Done. Are you hurt?” His hands move, barely touching—temples, hairline, throat, down my arms, stopping at my wrists. “Elena, talk to me—are you hit?”
“I don’t think so.” The relief makes me lightheaded. “I’m alive.”
He tilts his head, listening past me, then snaps, “Bring the lights up—now,” into his comm.
“Working,” someone answers, faint through the static.
Luca’s gaze darts to my face, reads whatever is there, and he tucks me closer, angling us away. “Can you sit up?” he asks.
“I can try.” I push with my palms to find the edge of the mattress and swing a leg—and the world white-outs.
“Ah—” The sound rips out of me. “My ankle—”
“Stop, stop.” Luca’s hands are on me again, anchoring. “Where?”
“Right.” I breathe through my teeth. “I twisted it—no, more than twisted.” The room tilts a little, and I press a hand to my belly like I can steady both of us. “I had to—I had to get free.”
“I know,” he says, and pride threads the words even now. “Don’t move.”
To Roberto, without looking away from me: “Make sure we’re clear, then get back up here with a medical kit. Now.”
“On it.” Roberto’s footfalls are swift as he heads to the doorway, gun still in hand, eyes sweeping, then gone.
Luca lowers me back to the rug as if I’m glass. “Breathe with me,” he says, and does it first—slow in, slower out. I follow, matching his pace, until the edges stop buzzing.
“The baby?” he asks, voice careful. “Any pain… there?”
I shake my head and swallow. “No pain, just my ankle.” I press lightly above the curve. “But what— Luca, what if the baby—,” My voice cracks.
“The doctor will be here as soon as we’re clear. Everything will be all right. I promise,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to my hair. “I’m going to look at your ankle, all right?”
A beat later, the generator coughs to life somewhere deep in the house. The bedside lamp, no longer on the nightstand, flickers weakly. Despite the dim light, the scene is clear: the overturned cabinet by the door, the shredded rug, the scatter of drawer contents like confetti, the smear of red on the floor, the shape by the foot of the bed that I don’t look at again.
