My training kicks in instantly. I flatten myself against the wall beside the door, heart hammering against my ribs. The café, bustling just minutes ago, is eerily quiet now. Too quiet.
Moving with calculated silence, I inch the door open just enough to peer through the crack. What I see sends ice through my veins.
Tables overturned. Coffee spilled across tile floors. A woman's shoe abandoned by the counter.
My eyes dart to our table - empty. No Damiano. No Lucrezia.
Fear grips me like a vise. I want to call out for them, but Byron's lessons are too deeply ingrained. Make no noise. Assess the situation. Survive.
I scan the visible portion of the café for any sign of movement. Nothing. Whoever stormed in has either left or is waiting in silence.
A small sound catches my attention—fabric dragging against tile. I peer around the bathroom door again and spot movement behind the counter.
A young waitress—the one who had taken our order earlier—crawls on herhands and knees, her face streaked with tears, body trembling. She moves with the desperate, jerky motions of pure terror.
"Hey," I whisper, careful to keep my voice low. "Come here."
Her head snaps up, eyes wide with fear, before she scrambles toward the bathroom. I pull her inside and close the door silently behind her.
"What happened?" I ask, gripping her shoulders to steady her. "Where are the people I was with?"
"Three men," she gasps between sobs. "They came in with—with guns. They weren't even hiding their faces."
My stomach drops. "The man and woman I was sitting with—what happened to them?"
"They took them." Her voice breaks. "The tall man tried to fight, but they had too many guns. They dragged them both out through the kitchen exit. It happened so fast?—"
Ice flows through my veins.
My mind races as I stare at the trembling waitress. Byron. It has to be Byron. There's no coincidence in this timing.
But how? How did Byron find me after all these days in hiding? We'd been so careful—burner phones, wigs, back entrances.
If Byron knew where I was, why wait until now to grab me? He could have taken me days ago from Scarlett's apartment.
The street outside is chaos—people running, screaming, ducking behind cars. But I only have eyes for one thing: Damiano's black SUV still parked across the street.
I sprint toward it, dodging through traffic. Cars honk as I weave between them, but I barely register the sound. My mind races with desperate hope that they might still be able to help.
As I reach the vehicle, that hope shatters.
Through the tinted windows, I can make out slumped figures. I yank open the driver's door and my stomach heaves. One body sits lifeless behind the wheel, a single bullet hole in his temple. Blood splatter paints the window beside him. The other lies across the passenger seat, eyes open but seeing nothing, throat slashed.
"No," I whisper, bile rising in my throat.
I take a deep breath, forcing down the panic threatening to overwhelm me. This isn't the time to fall apart. Damiano and Lucrezia need me.
I grab the driver's body by the shoulders and drag him across the center console, trying not to look at his vacant eyes. His weight is substantial, but adrenaline gives me strength. I push him into the passenger footwell beside the other.
Sliding into the driver's seat, I feel something warm and wet soak through my jeans—blood. I ignore it and reach for the keys still in the ignition.
My fingers touch something cold at my throat—the platinum necklace Byron gave me last Christmas. Realization hits me like a freight train.
"The fucking necklace," I hiss, yanking it off with such force the clasp breaks. "How could I be so stupid?" Byron gave me this necklace as a gift a night before the wedding.
A tracking device. It had to be. That's how Byron found us—followed us through me. I'd been wearing his leash this whole time without even knowing it.
I throw the necklace out the window, twist the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. As I pull away from the curb, sirens wail in the distance. Police will be here soon, but I'm already gone.
