Something inside me had shut down.
Now I relied on mouthing words, on trembling hands forming signs, hoping someone would understand.
We stepped out into the night.
Cool air kissed my overheated skin. It should have felt freeing.
Instead, it felt unfamiliar.
A sleek black car waited near the curb—polished, immaculate, almost obscene against the carnage we’d just left behind. The emblem caught the streetlight.
A sleek 2026 Mercedes-Benz bus.
Recognition struck me immediately.
My pulse spiked.
I stopped walking.
Dario nearly collided into me. “Elena?”
I turned to him slowly and mouthed the words carefully, exaggerating each shape.
“Are we going to New York?”
He frowned, squinting as he tried to read my lips.
Confusion creased his brow.
I swallowed frustration and lifted my trembling hands instead, signing deliberately despite the pain in my wrists.
New York. Question.
Ethan stepped forward instantly.
“She’s asking if we’re taking her to New York,” he translated smoothly.
Relief flickered through me — at least one of my brothers understood sign language.
Dario’s expression shifted.
Softened.
But there was something else there too.
Regret.
He shook his head gently.
“No, Elena,” he said, voice thick. “We’re heading to Ruslan Baranov’s estate.”
My stomach dropped.
Dario dragged a trembling hand through his hair.
It was a habit he’d had since we were children.
His fingers snagged briefly in his curls, sticky with drying blood.
