Almost.
The coffee Sofia handed me smelled wrong. Not bad—just… off. Too strong, too acidic. I took a sip, and my stomach rolled the way it had every morning this week.
"You okay?" Sofia asked, noticing my grimace.
"Fine. Just tired." I set the cup down, reached for water instead. "Haven't been sleeping well."
That was true enough. The stress, the testimony preparation, the constant low-level fear. All of it was exhausting in ways I'd never experienced.
But this felt different. Bone-deep fatigue that sleep didn't fix. Emotional swings that seemed disproportionate even for our situation.
I'd chalked it up to trauma and stress.
Hadn't let myself consider the other possibility. Not yet. Not now.
Then Sofia's breath caught. Sharp. Wrong.
The water kept running, but she'd gone perfectly still.
"Mom?" My voice came out uncertain, coffee forgotten.
She turned from the window, and I saw that her face had drained of all color.
"Valentina, run." Her voice came out controlled despite the terror radiating from every line of her body. "Now."
I stood, chair scraping against tile. Testimony notes scattered across the table—evidence that would destroy my father's empire in two weeks. "What—"
The windows exploded inward.
Glass was sprayed everywhere in glittering shards. I threw my arms over my face, stumbled backward as fragments raineddown like deadly confetti. Pieces caught in my hair, sliced across my forearms in thin burning lines.
Flashbangs detonated—blinding white light searing my retinas, concussive sound rupturing through my skull like physical force.
My ears rang, high-pitched and agonizing, drowning out everything else.
Smoke grenades hissed, filling the kitchen with choking gray clouds that burned my throat and eyes. I coughed, gasped, couldn't draw clean air. Each breath tasted like chemicals and ash.
Doors crashed open from multiple directions. Front entrance splintering. Back door kicked in. Side windows shattering. Simultaneous breach from every angle.
Coordinated. Professional. Military precision.
Armed men in tactical gear poured inside—black uniforms, body armor, weapons raised. A dozen, at least, moving through the smoke with the kind of efficiency that spoke of extensive training.
FBI agents shouted warnings. Gunfire erupted in sharp cracks. Muzzle flashes lit the smoke in strobe-light bursts.
The agents never had a chance. They were swarmed in seconds.
I stood frozen, locked rigid by shock while my brain recorded everything with merciless clarity—the pattern of blood spray on the wall, the exact angle of an agent's fall, the serial number on the nearest contractor's rifle.
Details I'd carry forever whether I wanted to or not.
My notes scattered at my feet, the coffee mug shattering on tile, brown liquid spreading across ceramic fragments.
Run. Move. Fight. Do something.
But terror had locked me in place.
Sofia appeared through the smoke like a ghost materializing beside me.
