Heavy—in that lazy way men get when they don’t believe the prey has teeth.
A key scrapes into the outer lock.
Metal on metal.
The sound drills straight down my spine and splinters behind my eyes.
I widen my stance without thinking. Knees loose. Shoulders ready. The blade in my waistband is already warm, already familiar in the way a weapon becomes when you finally stop pretending you’re meant to be saved instead of surviving.
Priest by name.Killer by blood.
Giovanni’s son doesn’t pray when the lock turns.
He decides where the blood will land.
“Back away from the door,” I whisper.
Not gentle.Not careful.
Urgent in a way that doesn’t offer hope.
Her reply barely finds me.
“Santino…”
Her voice shredded to threads.
“…don’t die for me.”
I shut my eyes.
Just once.
Not for God.
For her.
Because if I answer that out loud, my voice will splinter—and something feral inside me will snap its leash too soon.
It is already too late for don’t die.
The lock clicks.
The outer latch releases with a soft, final sound that gouges my gut hollow.
I draw the blade without a breath.
Every sense ratchets higher—
Pulse slowing.Vision narrowing.Hearing thins out.
Their voices leak through the metal.
“She’s in there.”“Open it.”“Boss wants her alive.”
Alive.
The word scorches.
