Like this is a joke.
And I’m the punchline.
“You’re full of surprises, Bishop,” he drawls, words lazy and venom-thick. “But you won’t leave here alive.”
He smiles when he says it.
That’s what crawls under my skin—the calm certainty of it. Like he’s not improvising. Like tonight’s already been written.
A trap.
Of course, it is.
I tighten my grip on Pia’s wrist and yank her behind the nearest stack of crates just as the first shot detonates the air. Wood explodes inches from my cheek. Splinters bite skin like shrapnel.
Gunfire erupts from above in a jagged, stuttering rhythm.
I slam my back into the crate, drag Pia into the hollow of my body, and start counting.
One muzzle flash left.Another farther down.Pause—third light—longer burst.
Two idiots dumping fear through their guns.
One methodical.
Carlo.
Waiting for me to peek so he can paint the wall with my skull.
Rounds chew through the crate in furious bursts. Dust scours my lungs. Somewhere, metal screams as bullets tear through shelving and send something heavy crashing.
I track the pattern.
Two wild.One clean.
Carlo aiming for me alone.
Good.
Hatred is easier when it wears a face.
Pia’s fingers claw into my shirt, knuckles white. Her heart jackhammers beneath my palm, like it’s trying to punch its way free of her ribs.
“Santino—” she starts.
“Listen.” I lean closer. I have to shout over the gunfire, but I keep my voice low—aimed into her bones. “When we move, yourun. Back wall. Left of the loading door. There’s an exit behind the shelving. You don’t look back. You don’t stop. You don’t wait for me.”
Her head jerks, eyes blown wide in the gloom. She shakes it hard before I finish.
“No.” The word cuts. “I’m not leaving you. You’re not sacrificing yourself for me.”
A shot slams into the crate and showers us with splinters. She flinches—but she doesn’t let go.
Stubborn, reckless woman.
Brave enough to die for me.
Foolish enough to mean it.
