He doesn’t.
“Gio,” Luca says calmly, stepping onto the lawn. I don’t look. I’m two inches from my car and only seconds until I’m out of here.
Antonio and Nico drift in from the parlor like they were standing just out of sight for the last minute, which they were. All three turn to Luca with the same look: your call.
He looks at me. He looks at Roberto. He looks at Elena, who has set the baby down somewhere and joined our little party on the lawn. Luca drags a breath, lifts his chin a fraction.
“Giovanni’s right,” he says, looking at me. “I didn’t trust your instincts before, Gio, and that was wrong.”
The twist in my chest loosens. I don’t move.
“But Roberto is also right,” he finishes. “This is a trap, and we handle it like one. Smart. No heroics for the sake of them.”
“I’m not interested in heroics,” I say. “I’m interested in Bianca.”
“Then you’ll listen long enough to make sure you get to her,” Roberto says. “Alive.”
I take those two breaths he wanted, and I stare at him while I do it.
Chapter Forty One
Bianca
I bolt.
Gravel slips under my shoes; the hedge claws at my calves. The gate is a dark slit ahead—ten steps, eight, five—then light burns across the path and silhouettes jump into it. I cut left for the thicker shrubs. A shout punches the air. Another. Footsteps hammer stone, fast and closing.
I lunge for the gate anyway, fingers catching cold iron. I try to haul myself up, slick metal under my palms, but a hand snagsthe back of my sweater and yanks. I land hard on the path, breath knocked clean out of me.
I scramble, nails scraping for purchase, and get as far as my knees before an arm locks around my ribs and pins my arms down. Another hand clamps over my mouth.
“Quiet,” a voice hisses in my ear. “Don’t make it worse.”
I buck and twist, throw my weight sideways, bite, anything, but I’m tired, and they’re not. Plus, they’re huge.
Two more pairs of feet skid to a stop beside us. Pressure closes on my shoulders and ankles. The gate stares back at me from three yards away, black and useless. My lungs drag a ragged breath past the palm on my mouth. The hand shifts just enough for air, not enough to scream.
“Got her,” someone calls toward the house.
The arm around my ribs tightens. I stop fighting for one beat, remembering the precious life I believe may already be inside me.
I go still. Not because I’m done, but because I can’t risk a fist or a heel in the wrong place.
“Easy,” the voice says again, less hiss and more instruction now. The palm lifts from my mouth but stays close. “No screaming.”
The grip on my ribs eases a fraction. They shift their holds and haul me upright.
“Walk,” someone orders.
So I walk. Not fast, not slow. I’m not in a hurry to get back inside, but I don’t want their hands to tighten on me again.
The house looms ahead, the rectangle of light illuminating the stone.
I keep my face blank and my breath steady and save everything I have left for when I’ll need it next.
They half-drag me inside, but they don’t take me to the stairs this time. They’re leading me down a long hall.
They steer me past the stairs and deeper into the house. The carpets thicken. The air warms. A door opens on the right, and heat rolls over my face.
