The ridge is crawling with Castiglione guards. Flavio is leaning against the hood of the lead SUV, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks collected and utterly unimpressed. He stares at the three of us before focusing on me—blood-stained, disheveled—and his eyes narrow with a judgmental gaze.
“Look at you three,” Flavio says, his voice carrying an authoritative weight. “Do you ever stop to think, or is it just adrenaline and idiocy all the way down?”
“Non hai niente a che fare qui,”I warn. You have no business here.
He strides forward, all polish and arrogant, like he owns the ground under his feet.
Andreas and Lucian step in front of me in unison.
“No one wants trouble. We were here to make sure theheirwas safe.” Andreas attempts a dialogue, and Flavio’s stride breaks.
He stops three feet away from me. His arms slowly uncurl from his chest as his gaze shifts from my face to the womanhiding in my shadow, and the earth tilts, just a little, like it’s waiting to see who falls first.
Flavio freezes, his mask cracking for the first time since I met him.
He sees her bloodied face, the way she shakes against my back, and his composure slips.
In an instant, the bored demeanor is gone, replaced by seething anger.
He doesn’t speak, nor does he move to grab her. Instead, he comes up to my face, his eyes wide and burning.
“Let. Her. Go.”
Chapter 42
Katarina
The night refuses to end on this ridge.
The mountain air is feeling like a blade against my skin, biting into the raw areas where the ropes used to be. Every time I breathe, my chest shudders, exhausted from screaming and crying.
I am standing behind Damiano, my fingers locked into his jacket. I can feel the vibration of his spine, his muscles tensed like a spring held past its breaking point. I can barely stand. I rest my forehead on his back, dizzy from the concussion Julian’s beating gave me.
A man they call Flavio inches toward Damiano’s face, his poise fractured by a terrifying anger as he says,“Let. Her. Go.”
Behind him, dozens of men in tacticals have materialized from the dark—the synchronized clack of safeties being disengaged rolls through the valley.
“Let mycousingo,” Flavio barks again, his eyes never leaving Damiano’s.
The wordcousinhits me like an ice-water bath, and I go still.
I peer over Damiano’s shoulder, squinting against the glare to see him.
The man’s face is sharp, arrogant, and hauntinglyfamiliar. He rubs his jaw as he challenges Damiano in a stare down, andI see it—the heavy gold signet ring on his right pinky, as he rubs his jaw. I’ve seen that before.
Mateo had one of those.
Damiano doesn’t shift his weight. “Not a chance,” he growls.
Suddenly, the shadows by the trees stir. Gio steps forward from the darkness of the cottage, followed by a handful of men. They fan out, guns raised.
“Step back, Castiglione, you know we never back down from war,” Lucian warns.
Flavio does not respond; instead, he tilts his head to the right and grins before walking back towards his car. When he’s in front of his SUV, he raises his hand, and the standoff snaps.
One of the men on the ridge flinches, and the night explodes.
A spray of gravel erupts near Gio’s feet as a stray round hits the ground. Damiano is moving before I can even scream. He shoves me down toward the ground, spinning to return fire.
