The edges of my world darken.
No.
Not like this.
Not pinned to the ground outside Caterina’s house by some nameless hired man while my people bleed on the lawn and the Contis wait behind a steel door.
No, damn it.
I reach for the knife at my belt, and I slam it into his thigh.
He screams, and the pressure lets up enough for me to breathe deep, slam my fist into his face.
If I’m going out, I’m going to do as much damage as possible on the way.
I go for another punch, but he blocks and slams my hand into the ground.
Then he’s leaning on my throat again. My lungs burn. I can hear my pulse in my ears now. Loud and slow.
Think.
There is always a way out. There is always leverage, angle, weakness, movement.
But my body is failing faster than my mind can solve it.
That is the truth, and I hate it.
I hate it more than I hate the man on top of me. More than I hate the blood loss, the pain, the dark.
I hate that I am not enough.
Not tonight. Not for her.
My vision narrows around his face.
I force my knee up, trying to strike anything I can reach. He shifts, absorbs it, then slams his fist into my side one more time.
This time, I hear myself make a broken sound of pain.
My hand twitches in the grass, inches from my fallen gun.
Too far.
I think of the safe room.
The children.
Teresa. How will she tell my mom?
Caterina.
Her face comes to me with startling clarity.
I see her in her office, chin lifted, dark eyes sharp, arguing with me about sight lines and flowers and whether I was allowed to make decisions about her life.
I see her laughing at dinner, candlelight in her hair, yellow roses on the table, the girls watching her like she hung the moon.
I see her standing in the moonlight, the robe shimmering down her body to pool at her feet.
