The gates.
Closed. Immovable.
Beyond them, guards stood at intervals along the high stone walls, their postures rigid, their presence constant.
The walls themselves rose like something ancient and unyielding, topped with razor wire that caught the morning light and glinted faintly.
Even if I ran—
Even if I somehow got past him—
There was nowhere to go.
Italy wasn’t just a country.
It was his territory.
His control.
Every road. Every exit.
Every shadow. Every safe house.
I had known that.
The passenger door opened.
I flinched.
Then forced myself to look up.
Vincenzo stood there, framed by the open door and the dim light of the bay, one hand resting lightly on the frame.
The other extended.
Not gentle.
Commanding.
“Come down, Elena.”
My breath hitched.
My legs—
I wasn’t sure they would work.
They felt disconnected from the rest of me, like they belonged to someone else entirely.
“I know you’re calculating escape routes,” he added, his voice quieter now. Almost... controlled. “But even if these gates were wide open, even if this building didn’t exist—”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“—you still couldn’t run from me.”
A pause.
Not threatening.
