"I don't." The admission comes out before he can stop it, and his face immediately closes off. "But that doesn't matter. I have orders."
"I understand." I keep my voice gentle. "You're loyal. That's admirable. But—" I press my hand against my stomach again, a deliberate gesture. "This baby didn't do anything wrong. Neither did I, really. I just fell in love with the wrong person at the wrong time."
The older guard shifts, and the young one immediately goes silent, his face closing off again. But I saw it—that flicker of connection, that moment where I became a person to him instead of just a job.
The minutes crawl by. I try to send silent reassurances to the baby growing inside me.It's going to be okay. Your father is coming. He'll get us out of this.I have to believe that Luca will come, that he'll find a way, that he won't let Alessandro hurt us. Even though he's spent weeks hating me, even though he's made it clear our marriage is just an obligation, he'll still come.
He has to.
A sudden, sharp crack cuts through my thoughts, jerking me back into reality. Then another, and another.
It’s gunfire.
The young guard's head snaps up, his hand immediately going to his weapon. The older guard moves to the door, listening intently. "What the fuck?" the young one mutters, his voice tight with panic.
I hear more shots, closer now. And shouting—men's voices raised in alarm and aggression. The sounds ricochet off the metal walls, amplified and distorted until I can't tell which direction they're coming from.
"Stay here," the older guard orders, pulling his weapon. "Watch her. Don't let her move." He's out the door before the young guard can respond, leaving us alone.
The young guard is staring at the door, his weapon drawn but his hands shaking slightly. He's terrified. I can hear it in his rapid breathing, see it in the way his eyes keep darting between me and the exit.
This is my chance. Maybe my only chance.
I stand slowly, and his weapon immediately swings toward me. "Sit down!"
"Please." I hold up my hands, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "Please, I just—I need to know what's happening. Is that my family? Are they here?"
"I said sit down!"
But he's not moving toward me. He's frozen, caught between his orders and his fear, and I can see the indecision written across his face. The gunfire is getting louder, closer. I can hear the staccato rhythm of automatic weapons now.
I take a step toward a desk shoved against the wall, and he follows me with the weapon but doesn't fire. "Don't—don't fucking move?—"
"I'm not going to run." My voice is shaking, but I force myself to keep moving. "I just—I'm dizzy. I need to sit on the desk. Please."
He hesitates, and in that hesitation, I see my opening.
My hand closes around the paperweight on the desk. It’s heavy, some decorative thing that's probably been sitting here for years, forgotten until now.
I don't think or let myself consider the consequences, the morality, or the fact that I've never hurt anyone in my life. I just move.
The paperweight connects with the side of his head with a sickening thud, and he goes down hard, his weapon clattering across the concrete floor. Blood immediately starts pooling beneath his head.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at what I've done, at the young guard who told me about his dead mother, who was just doing his job, and who I might have just killed.
The gunfire gets closer, and survival instinct kicks in. I run.
The hallway outside the room is chaos. Smoke hangs in the air, making everything hazy and surreal. I can hear shouting—some in Italian, some in English—and the constant percussion of gunfire echoing off metal walls. I don't know where I'm going. I turn a corner and nearly run into two men locked in combat. They're too focused on each other to notice me, and I slip past them, pressing myself against the wall. There's bloodeverywhere. On the floor, splattered across the walls, pooling around bodies I don't let myself look at too closely.
I keep moving. Another hallway, more gunfire. The sound is deafening, disorienting. I can't tell which direction is safe or might lead to an exit. I duck into a doorway as two soldiers run past, their weapons raised and their faces grim. One of them is bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, but he doesn't slow down.
The warehouse is a maze. Every corridor looks the same—concrete walls, metal beams, harsh overhead lights that flicker and buzz. I'm completely turned around. I turn another corner and freeze.
A body lies sprawled across the floor, face down in a spreading pool of blood. I can't tell if it's one of ours or one of theirs, if they're dead or just unconscious. I step over them carefully, trying not to slip in the blood, and keep moving.
The gunfire is everywhere now. Behind me, ahead of me, to my left and right. The warehouse has become a war zone, and I'm caught in the middle of it with no weapon, no protection, and nothing but desperate hope that I can find a way out.
I hear footsteps running toward me and press myself into an alcove, holding my breath. Two Marchesi soldiers run past, shouting to each other in Italian. They don't see me. When they're gone, I move again.
