Rubber burned.
And the Lamborghini shot forward like a missile breaking loose.
The world blurred.
The forty-minute drive became ten.
I pushed the car to its limits.
Traffic became irrelevant.
The warehouse appeared out of the darkness like something abandoned by time itself.
Squat. Broken.
Rust-streaked.
Windows either boarded or shattered.
I slammed the brakes. The car stopped.
The engine hissed, still hot, not fully settled, as I stepped out.
Already moving.
Running.
Two guards stood at the main entrance.
I recognized them immediately.
Former soldiers.
Ciro’s recruits.
They raised their weapons—but too slowly.
I fired two suppressed shots, and they dropped before they could react.
I didn’t look at them.
I kicked the door open.
Glock raised.
“Elena!”
My voice echoed through the warehouse.
Off metal. Off concrete.
Off silence.
The smell hit me first.
Oil. Rust. Old blood.
Leftover death.
