The thought came suddenly.
I could stand up right now—move fast, slip through the halls, find a side exit, and disappear into the night.
Disappear before the clock struck ten.
Before he came looking.
Before he decided to enforce his command in a way I couldn’t escape.
But even as the thought formed—it unraveled just as quickly.
Because this place—this villa—was not like the others.
It wasn’t just a house. It was a fortress.
Even if I somehow managed to escape this fortress, then what?
My chest tightened at the thought.
Ruslan Baranov’s men were still hunting me across the globe.
And now I had made a new enemy in the Spanish rebels—if they caught me, I’d be as good as dead.
Running wasn’t an option.
Vincenzo’s fortress wasn’t safety—it was just another, far more controlled hell.
I checked the time—9:55 PM.
No time to eat.
I braced myself for whatever awaited, forcing my legs to move.
Step by step, I walked straight into the place I feared most: his bedroom.
Every movement pulled at muscles still sore from the explosion, still bruised from Ciro’s baton.
My body protested with every step, knees weak, ribs throbbing, shoulders tight.
Pain lanced through me, a dull, constant reminder that I had survived, but barely.
I climbed the stairs.
Each step felt heavier than the last, my footfalls echoing too loudly in the silence of the house.
One step.
Then another.
Then another.
My hand brushed the railing—not for support, but to steady the trembling I refused to acknowledge.
My pulse thundered in my ears, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.
At the top, the double doors of his bedroom loomed.
My chest tightened.
