"Falco?" she asked.
"Dead."
"Good."
I carried her to my car, settling her gently in the backseat. Mateo approached as I closed the door.
"Was it worth it?" he asked quietly. "All this—for her?"
I glanced through the window at Sophie, already half-asleep against the leather upholstery. For the first time in my life, I didn't calculatethe costs against the benefits. I didn't weigh strategic advantage against operational risk.
"Yes," I said simply. "She's worth it."
Mateo studied my face, then nodded slowly. "I've never seen you like this before."
"Like what?"
"Like you care too much."
I should have denied it. Should have maintained the façade of cold calculation that had served me for decades. Instead, I found myself admitting the truth.
"I do."
As we drove away, flames began to lick at the warehouse windows behind us, consuming all evidence of what had transpired there. By morning, nothing would remain but ashes and rumors.
Sophie stirred in her sleep, murmuring something inaudible. I reached back, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers curled around mine instinctively, holding on even in unconsciousness.
I'd gone to that warehouse to rescue her. Somehow, in the process, she'd also rescued me.
CHAPTER 10
Sophie
Iwas back in the warehouse, Falco's knife tracing patterns across my skin. "He's not coming for you," he whispered. "You're nothing to him. Just a pawn."
The blade pressed deeper. Blood welled beneath its edge.
"No one's coming," he hissed.
I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat as I bolted upright in bed. My heart hammered against my ribs like it wanted to escape. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead, my nightgown to my skin.
For a moment, I couldn't place where I was. The silk sheets, the moonlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows—none of it registered through the fog of terror.
The bedroom door burst open. Vittorio appeared, gun in hand, eyes scanning for threats. When he saw me alone, trembling in bed, he loweredthe weapon.
"Sophie," he said, his voice rough with sleep. He wore only sweatpants, his chest bare in the moonlight. "You're safe."
I couldn't catch my breath. My lungs refused to expand, like steel bands had tightened around my chest. The room tilted and swayed.
"I can't—" I gasped. "I can't breathe."
He moved to the bed, setting his gun on the nightstand. "You're having a panic attack," he said, sitting beside me. "Focus on me. Just me."
His hands cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. "Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I tried to follow his rhythm, but terror still clawed at my throat.
"I was back there," I whispered. "He said you weren't coming."
