I was shot in the goddamn foyer, nearly bled out on my own floor, and I still brought her here. Kept her here. Took care of her here. Gave her everything she never had the chance to ask for.
Here.
Made space for her inside the one thing I built out of trauma and blood and violence. Handed her the Bratva to stand beside me in, and she—
No.
Pietro’s laptop pings.
The sound cuts through the room like a blade.
“Santo sent train station footage.”
My eyes shut for one hard beat.
Then I open them.
I exhale through my nose, slow and sharp. “Pull it up.”
My voice sounds far away. Detached. Like it belongs to somebody not standing in the middle of his own house trying not to come apart.
“Let’s see.”
Let’s finish this.
Let’s watch her board a fucking train and prove every stupid, weak thought clawing at my skull right.
Pietro turns the laptop.
The footage is grainy. Washed out. Time stamp in the corner. Lower level of the station. Fluorescent lights. Concrete. People half-moving through their own mornings.
Then Ayla comes into frame.
Every part of me locks.
She’s got the bag on her shoulder. Moving fast. Head down. Not running. Not panicked. Just… moving with purpose.
The room goes dead silent around me.
I don’t hear the men anymore. Don’t hear the hum of the lights. Don’t hear my own breathing.
I just watch her.
She cuts across the platform.
Passes one column.
Then another.
And a man in a hood falls into frame behind her. I lean forward before I realize I’m doing it.
Another one appears a second later.
Not close enough to touch her. Close enough to follow.
My pulse changes shape.
“There,” Vaska says quietly.
