I moved quickly, counting doors, following the path that would lead to the loading dock three blocks away. From there, public transportation. Anonymous crowds. Freedom, however temporary.
Behind me, alarms would be sounding. Angelo would discover the switched keycard. Luca would be notified.
But I'd have a head start. Enough time to reach Terminal B, to discover what Giuseppe was really planning. Enough time to prove I could protect myself and our child, that I was more than just a liability to be hidden away.
The service tunnel ended at a heavy door marked "Authorized Personnel Only." I pushed through, emerging into a loading dock where early morning deliveries were being unloaded. Workers barely glanced at me—just another person in the industrial area, unremarkable in jeans and a jacket I'd stolen from the laundry.
I pulled up the hood and walked toward the street, heart pounding, waiting for shouts or gunfire or Luca's security team to materialize from the shadows.
Nothing. Just the normal sounds of the city waking up.
A cab pulled to the curb three blocks later. I climbed in, gave the driver an address two blocks from Terminal B, and settled back with the stolen cash burning in my pocket.
I was free. Terrified. And walking straight into a trap.
But for the first time in nine weeks, I was making my own choice about my own survival.
The cab merged into morning traffic, carrying me toward whatever Giuseppe had planned. Toward answers about my father's condition. Toward a confrontation that would either give me the intelligence I needed or destroy everything Luca and I had been building.
My hand moved to my stomach again, a protective gesture that was becoming automatic.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to the child growing inside me. "But I can't teach you to be brave if I'm not brave myself."
The city blurred past the window as we drove toward Terminal B, toward the truth, toward whatever came next.
Behind me, I knew Luca would be discovering my absence. His fury would be absolute. His fear, probably worse.
But I couldn't worry about that now.
I'd made my choice. And whatever happened next, it would be on my terms.
CHAPTER 13
Luca
Blood dripped from Claudia's split lip as I circled her, moonlight filtering through the warehouse skylights casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The waitress Ricci had planted sat bound to a metal chair in the center of the abandoned storage facility, her designer clothes incongruous against the decay surrounding her.
"I'll ask one more time," I said, voice carrying in the cavernous space. "What does Ricci know about my wife?"
Behind me, Marco and Dante flanked the only exit, weapons visible, faces impassive. We'd spent weeks tracking Claudia's movements, documenting her communications, waiting for the perfect moment to spring our trap. Tonight, she'd finally made the mistake we'd been waiting for—meeting with one of Ricci's lieutenants in a place she thought was secure.
She hadn't expected us to own the building. To have cameras embedded in every surface. To be three steps ahead.
"Go to hell, Romano." She spat blood onto the floor near my shoes. "Salvatore Ricci sends his regards."
I moved with sudden, vicious speed, gripping the back of her chair and tilting it backward until she teetered on the edge of falling, her eyes widening with genuine fear for the first time.
"You seem confused about your situation," I said, each word precise and cold. "This isn't a negotiation. This isn't an interrogation. This is me deciding whether you die quickly or slowly."
She swallowed hard, the movement visible in her throat. The pulse there fluttered rapidly, betraying the calm she attempted to project.
"Kill me, then," she said. "I'm dead anyway if I talk."
I let the chair drop back onto all four legs with a jarring thud that made her gasp. "Perhaps. But Ricci's death will be theoretical, distant. Mine would be immediate. Intimate." I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a near whisper. "And I'm very, very good at making it last."
Terror flickered across her face before she could mask it. Good. We were getting somewhere.
"You're bluffing," she tried, but her voice wavered. "You're not the monster they say. Not anymore. Not since the Moretti girl. She's made you soft."
