His eyes narrowed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I see you mistake my silence for gentility.”
Before I could retort, his hand shot out, closing around my upper arm like iron.
The pressure was brutal.
Pain exploded instantly, sharp and immediate, radiating through my shoulder and into my ribs.
I bit back the sound that tried to escape.
Barely.
He hauled me to my feet.
Fast. Rough.
My balance faltered, and I stumbled, fighting to stay upright as my body protested every movement.
Fresh pain flared along my ribs.
The burn on my arm.
The aching, growing bruise where the explosion had kissed my skin too close.
My legs wobbled. My breath came in shallow gasps.
He didn’t care.
He dragged me out of the room.
Down a short corridor.
My bare feet scraped against the cold concrete, each step jarring the bruises that were already blooming across my back and legs.
The explosion had thrown me hard.
I could feel the dull pressure behind my eyes—warning me of a possible concussion.
The sharp sting along my ribs.
For a moment—memory and reality blurred.
We moved through another door.
And into a larger space.
A garage bay.
Dimly lit.
Concrete floors stained with oil and time.
Renzo knelt in the center of the room.
His wrists were bound behind his back with heavy zip-ties.
His posture was still.
His head was slightly bowed—but not in defeat.
