Alessio's hand tightened on mine.
"Get behind the desk," he whispered. "Don't move. Don't make a sound."
Then he was gone, melting into darkness like he belonged there.
I crouched behind the desk—the same desk where minutes ago we'd been tangled together, lost in each other. Now it was just cover, shelter from whatever was coming.
I listened to footsteps echo through the penthouse fortress that was supposed to be impenetrable.
Someone had found us.
And I was still tasting him on my lips when the first shot rang out.
CHAPTER 7
Alessio
Imoved through my penthouse like a ghost, every sense heightened, muscle memory overriding thought. Twenty years of survival instinct compressed into pure calculation.
The footsteps were professional. Weight was distributed correctly, and deliberate spacing between steps. Not amateurs who'd gotten lucky with my security—trained operatives who knew exactly what they were doing.
I reached the concealed panel beside my study door and pressed my thumb to the biometric lock. It clicked open. I grabbed the backup Glock and two spare magazines, then moved silently back to Valentina.
She hadn't moved. Good.
I crouched beside the desk, found her wrist in the darkness. Pressed the gun into her palm.
"Safety's off," I breathed against her ear. "Twelve rounds. Aim center mass like I taught you."
Her fingers closed around the grip. Steady. No trembling.
"Where—"
"Panic room. Southeast corner of my bedroom. Biometric lock keyed to your thumbprint now. Get inside, seal the door, don't open it for anyone except Domenico or me."
"No."
The word landed like a physical blow.
"Valentina—"
"We're in this together." Her voice was barely audible but absolute. "You said I wasn't a victim anymore. Victims hide. I fight."
Footsteps on the stairs now. Multiple sets, coordinated ascent.
No time to argue.
I grabbed her hand, pulled her up. We moved through the darkness in tandem—her smaller frame pressed against my side, breathing controlled, steps matching mine. The days of training were paying off in ways I hadn't anticipated.
She'd learned fast. Too fast for someone who'd never held a gun before last week.
We made it to the hallway before the first muzzle flash erupted.
I shoved Valentina behind the marble column, returned fire in three controlled bursts. The shooter dropped. Another appeared in the doorway to my left—I put two rounds through his chest before he could acquire a target.
"Three o'clock," Valentina whispered.
I pivoted right as a third operative emerged from the guest suite. She knew the approach angles—her photographic memory had mapped the entire layout.
