“Exit!”Andre yelled.
The corridor tunneled—peeling wallpaper, blank-eyed portraits.Footsteps behind me—not pursuit, protection.Marco.His hand found my elbow and turned me toward a narrower hall, the kind built for servants or secrets.
“This way,” he said.
A door at the end and we burst into an overgrown courtyard.
“Car!”Marco barked.“Now.Go.”
“I’m not—” I started, because my pride liked to make unhelpful arguments when I was terrified.
He cut me a look that said everything:Don’t be a fool.Not now.He shoved a small folder into my hand, fast, like a magician planting proof.“Keep it down.Don’t open it here.”
Dante’s folder.The one he’d offered like a dare.My fingers tightened.
“Marco—”
“Go.”
I went.
The courtyard gate yawned; beyond it, gravel.Andre was already at the car, door open, engine a low growl.I dove into the back seat.Shots cracked behind us.Andre flinched, then didn’t, which was worse.He flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror, then to me.“Seat belt.”
“Is he—” My throat closed.
“He’s Enrico.”He threw the car into motion and we tore down the lane.Trees blurred.
At the intersection, the night burst open.Headlights.A black SUV fishtailed across the road like an answer no one wanted.Andre didn’t brake.He drove through the space that wasn’t there and somehow made it be.The SUV spun; metal shrieked.A glance in the mirror—men pouring out, angry ants.And then—two pops from the orchard road.Sniper.Our side.The ants folded.
I clutched the folder to my chest like a relic.Smooth cardstock, damp now from my fingers.The phone on the dash buzzed.Andre hit speaker without looking.“Sì.”
Enrico’s voice filled the car.Low.Controlled.“Status.”
“Package secure,” Andre said.
“Good.”A breath.Paper-thin.“Five minutes.North gate.”
“Copy.”
The line clicked off.Andre’s mouth ticked, not quite a smile.“Told you.”
But my insides had not gotten the memo.They shook.Not visibly.I have pride.
The estate gates opened like a mouth.We slid inside.The house reared up, pale and knowing.Men moved where men should be—at posts, in shadows, near doors that led to other doors.The car stopped.My door opened from the outside.
Enrico.He was whole and not.Shirt open at the throat, hair messier than his pride liked to allow, knuckles scraped, one sleeve darkening where blood had gone to hide.His gaze skimmed me like hands do when they’ve earned it—swift, total, inventory and worship.I exhaled a sound that wasn’t quite a sob.
“You’re late.”
He huffed something like a laugh and put his palm at the back of my neck.Warm.Real.“Get inside.”
We did.
The study ate us and made us ours again.He shut the door and the house’s other heartbeats grew fainter.
“You followed me,” he said finally.A crime, an absolution.
“I did.We’re either partners or not.”
