I stared at Alex, unable to process her words.
"It's the Scorpions," she continued. "My brother Lorenzo's signature."
She paused, swallowed hard. "They remove the right hand. Like they did with Sal. Like Gina."
The pattern clicked into place like tumblers in a lock. Not just killed. Tortured. Mutilated.
I saw it all in vivid flashes: Sal's body discovered in his garage, Gina found in Harbor East. And now Mark. My friend. The man who'd mentored me for years, who'd backed my story when no one else would, who'd insisted I go into protective custody.
They'd tortured him. Cut off his hand. Made him suffer.
Because of my article.
Because of me.
Because of Alex.
My stomach lurched violently. Bile rose in my throat as the room began to spin. I couldn't get air into my lungs. The kitten sensed my distress, shifting nervously against my thigh.
The first sob built in my chest like a wave, unstoppable and devastating.
A sound tore from my throat, something between a sob and a scream that I didn't recognize as my own. The kitten leapt from my lap, startled by the sudden convulsion of my body. I doubled over, one hand clutching my stomach while the other pressed against my mouth, as if I could physically hold back the grief that poured out of me.
"No, no, no," I choked out, the words dissolving into incoherent sounds that scraped my throat raw. "Mark, oh god, Mark."
My body betrayed me completely. Tears flooded down my face, not the silent, dignified kind I'd managed before, but violent, wracking sobs that left me gasping for air between each one. My shoulders shook so hard I thought something might break inside me.
My stomach twisted violently. The room tilted and spun around me like I was trapped in some nightmarish carnival ride. I became aware of my ankle throbbing, the pain I'd been ignoring suddenly amplified by every other sensation overwhelming me.
I saw Mark's face, not the one from the news but the way he looked the last time I saw him, concerned and determined as he insisted I go into protective custody. The way he'd squeezed my shoulder and told me he was proud of me.
And they'd tortured him for it. Cut off his hand. Made him suffer.
Because I wrote that article. Because I trusted Dom's evidence. Because I dragged Mark into this mess.
Through the blur of tears, I looked at Alex, still standing in the doorway. Her family. Her brother. The Scorpions. All of it connected to her. She brought this horror into our lives with her lies, with her betrayal.
I heard movement, saw Kara stand from the corner of my eye.
"Sabine, are you—"
I threw up my hand, palm out. I couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear to be touched by any of them, not after what they'd hidden from me. Not after what it had cost.
My lungs refused to fill. The walls of the room pressed in. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to be anywhere but here, surrounded by these women, these strangers who'd failed to protect the people I loved.
I pushed myself up from the chair, legs unsteady beneath me, and stumbled toward the door.
I pushed myself up from the chair, my legs buckling beneath me. My ankle throbbed with each step as I stumbled toward the door.
"Sabine, wait," someone called behind me. Kara, maybe. Or Ellie. It didn't matter.
I lurched down the hallway, past the command room with its intrusive cameras, away from the staircase and the kitchen's harsh fluorescent glare. My stomach twisted violently with each step.
The solarium door stood ajar at the end of the great room. I slipped inside, grateful for the darkness. Humid warmth enveloped me, carrying the rich scent of soil and night-blooming jasmine. Moonlight filtered through the glass ceiling, casting silver patterns across Isabella's collection of tropical plants. Her sanctuary. Now mine.
My ankle gave out completely. I collapsed against a stone planter, sliding down until I hit the floor. The room tilted and spun around me like the earth itself had split open. I pressed my palms against the cool tiles, trying to ground myself, but nothing would stop spinning.
I retched, my body convulsing, but nothing came up except bitter saliva. The facts circled my mind like vultures: Mark was dead. Mark was tortured. They cut off his hand. Because I wrote that article. Because I trusted Alex.
