"You're making a mistake," he says again. "And when you realize it, when you're alone in Europe with no one and nothing, don't expect me to take you back."
The guards are already moving toward us and I'm about to yell for them when chaos descends
The crack of gunfire, sharp and sudden, coming from somewhere beyond the hangar.
Everything happens at once.
More gunfire, closer now, and shouting, the guards beside the car are pulling weapons and moving toward the threat.
"Get to the plane!" one of the guards shouts at me. "Now!"
Vittorio's hand is still on my wrist and he's pulling me in the opposite direction, toward the cars. I wrench free and start running toward the stairs.
Men appear from behind the hangar.
Not our men. Wrong clothes, wrong weapons, moving with coordinated precision toward us.
O'Rourke's men.
I know it instantly, instinctively, the same way I knew it nine years ago when they came for me the first time.
No, no, no.
I run faster.
Someone tackles me from behind.
I yelp and hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from my lungs, and hands are on me immediately, rough and violent, pulling my arms behind my back.
"Got her!" a voice shouts.
I'm fighting, kicking, trying to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth and I'm being dragged backward, away from the plane, away from the guards who are engaging with the attackers.
I bite down on the hand over my mouth and taste blood. The man curses and hits me across the face hard enough that my vision goes white for a second.
When it clears, I'm being shoved into a van, my hands zip-tied behind my back, and someone else is being thrown in beside me.
Vittorio.
His face is bleeding and his hands are also restrained, he's cursing in Italian, furious and struggling.
The van door slams shut.
We're moving before I can process what just happened, the van accelerating hard, tires squealing, and through the small window in the back I can see the airfield receding, see the gunfire still flashing, see everything I was supposed to escape to disappearing behind me.
"Isabella—" Vittorio starts.
"Shut up." My voice is shaking. "Just shut up."
He does.
We drive for what feels like hours but is probably thirty minutes, taking turns too fast, the van rattling and bouncing, and I'm trying to stay calm, trying to breathe, trying not to let the panic take over.
They took me.
The O'Rourkes took me again.
Just like before. Just like when I was little. And this time there's no Enzo coming to save me because Enzo doesn't even know where I am.
