"Never. He belongs to me. Has since he was fourteen. You don't get to take—"
Matteo moved. Faster than I'd have thought possible. Circled behind Dante. Grabbed his wrist. Yanked the knife away from my throat.
Dante spun. Tried to fight. Matteo was faster. Stronger. Trained.
"Elio, get Julian!" Matteo slammed Dante against the wall. "I've got this piece of shit!"
Elio holstered his gun and was beside me in seconds. Pulling out a knife. Cutting the zip ties. Freeing my hands.
"I've got you. You're safe. I've got you."
My hands were free. I tried to stand. My legs gave out. Everything hurt. The room spun.
Elio caught me. Pulled me against his chest. "I've got you. I'm here. You're safe now."
Behind us, I heard Matteo. Heard Dante begging.
"Please—wait—we can talk about this—"
"No talking." Matteo's voice was cold. Dead.
Sounds of violence. Brutal. Efficient. Matteo wasn't using a gun. Was using his hands. His fists. Making it personal.
Elio turned me away. Held my face against his chest so I couldn't see. Couldn't watch.
"Don't look. Don't watch. Just focus on me. You're safe. I've got you."
I heard Dante screaming. Then choking. Then nothing.
Silence.
"It's done," Matteo said. His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. "He's dead. Problem solved."
Elio didn't respond. Just held me tighter. Like he could shield me from everything that had happened. Everything I'd endured.
"Can you walk?" he asked quietly.
"I don't know. Maybe. Everything hurts."
"I'm going to carry you. Okay? I'm going to get you out of here."
He lifted me carefully. One arm under my knees. One supporting my back. I gasped as the movement pulled at the welts from Dante's belt. At my injured wrists. At everything that hurt.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just hold on. We're getting you out."
He carried me up the stairs. Through the house. Bodies on the floor. Dante's guards. All dead or unconscious.
Outside. Fresh air. Freedom. Night sky above.
I could breathe. Finally breathe.
Paramedics were waiting. Ambulance lights strobing red and blue. Elio set me down on a gurney. Didn't let go of my hand.
"I'm not leaving you," he said. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."
The paramedics worked around him. Checking vitals. Looking at my injuries. The bruises. The split lip. The welts on my back. The bleeding wrists.
"We should take him to the hospital—"
