A scream.
High. Raw. Broken.
Pia’s.
My heart seizes. The ground tilts beneath my feet. I snatch the lantern off the shelf and run — faster than I’ve ever run through these tunnels. My lungs burn; boots slam against damp stone.
“Pia!” I shout, my voice tearing out of me.
A turn left. Then right. The lantern light swings, wild, frantically. My pulse roars like a snarl in my ears. I hit the next corridor at full speed, skidding around the corner—
And my stomach drops.
They sealed the second vault door.
Every lock is engaged.Every bolt turned.Steel closed tight as a coffin lid.
“No.” The word scrapes out of me, hoarse, strangled. I drop the lantern and slam my fist against the metal hard enough to split my knuckles.
“Pia!”
A sound answers — faint, panicked — smothered by the heavy steel.
“Santino—! I’m—inside, I can’t.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
And something inside me breaks with it.
“Jesus Christ,” I choke, pressing my forehead to the cold metal. My palms flatten on the door. My breath shudders out in sharp, uneven bursts.
She’s trapped.
She’s terrified.
She’s alone in a room built for torture.
And I hear it — not with my ears, but somewhere deeper — the moment panic clamps down on her. There’s a tremor in her voice I’ve never heard before. A fear that doesn’t belong to the girl who walked into my church with a knife and dared me to hate her.
“Pia,” I rasp. “I’m here.”
I slam my fist into the door again — useless, desperate.
“Pia!”
Her answering sob is faint, muffled—
But it destroys me.
My vision blurs. My throat tightens. Something sharp presses behind my ribs, cutting deeper with every breath.
She’s not just trapped.
She’s trapped in his chamber.
My father’s vault.His hell.
And the thought of her down there —breathing recycled air,surrounded by old blood,thinking no one is coming—
