I was already turning when the door burst open.
A woman slipped through the gap like smoke slipping through fingers.
Fast. Desperate. Unannounced.
She moved without hesitation, bolting past Renzo and General Rossi before either of them could fully adjust.
That alone told me everything.
This wasn’t someone who didn’t understand danger.
This was someone who had learned how to outrun it.
She scanned the room in a single, frantic sweep—desk, mirror, vestment racks, every possible exit—eyes wide, searching, calculating.
Then she ran.
Not toward the center.
Toward the side.
The narrow alcove behind the carved wooden screen—partially hidden, close to the confessional space.
Renzo and Rossi were already moving.
Fast. Lethal.
Guns cleared leather with sharp, unmistakable clicks—the sound of metal being drawn with intent to kill.
Renzo reached her first.
His hand shot out, gripping her arm with brutal force, wrenching it behind her back in one fluid motion.
She gasped. But she didn’t scream.
The General was right behind her.
Beretta raised.
Cold steel pressed to her temple.
“On the floor,” Renzo snapped, voice like gravel. “Now.”
His knee drove into her spine.
Forcing her down.
Hard.
She dropped to her knees against the stone with a sharp intake of breath, her hands pinned behind her back.
I blinked once.
Then again.
And that’s when recognition cut through the noise.
My gaze locked onto her face.
