But I saw it.
Two men measuring each other.
Assessing leverage. Calculating consequences.
Whatever silent negotiation happened in that exchange remained locked behind hardened expressions.
Then Ruslan sank slowly back into the chair.
His shoulders were rigid.
His jaw tight.
His hands—still stained with blood—rested loosely on his thighs like he was forcing himself not to reach for me.
The moment his weight settled, I dropped the knife.
It hit the marble with a sharp metallic clang and spun once before coming to rest.
I didn’t even look at it.
I ran.
Straight to Dario.
My fingers grabbed his sleeve, trembling, blood smearing across the fabric.
“Let’s leave,” I mouthed urgently. “Now.”
I repeated it.
Again.
And again.
Dario nodded once—no hesitation.
He lifted his hand and signaled the others with sharp, precise movements that belonged more to battlefields than living rooms.
Move. Protect. Form up.
They reacted instantly.
Ethan stepped to my left.
Luca positioned himself behind me.
Marco and Nico flanked my sides.
Vito brought up the rear, scanning the room one last time before turning toward the exit.
They moved like a trained unit.
A fortress built around one fragile body.
As we approached the double doors, I allowed myself one breath.
Freedom.
