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I follow a few steps behind, hoping to catch her with a question about the program, when motion at the opposite end of the corridor stops me. Two men round the corner from the stairwell and head in my direction. The rec room sits between us, its windowed door still open, the children’s laughter spilling into the hallway. I’m roughly ten feet away and exposed, with nowhere to go but forward or back.
They have blank expressions that I now recognize. Most of the mafia soldiers wear that same cold look of violence. They move together like trained robots in their matching coats, full beards, and twin sets of piercing blue eyes. One has a blond buzz cut while the other’s bald. That’s the only physical difference.
A chill drops down my spine. It’s the same Volkov duo I saw back at Ashford.
My stomach drops. Marco, who’s too busy flopping around from roundhouse kicks that would barely dent a pillow, doesn’t see them or sense the danger.
I ease back and crouch behind the nearest pillar, keeping out of their line of sight as I pull out my phone to call Marco. He answers on the second ring.
I speak as quietly as I can. “Two Volkov men. Corridor outside the pediatric wing. Heading your direction.”
He goes silent for half a second, then his voice cuts sharply. “Where are you?”
“In the hospital. I mean St. Catherine’s. I followed you. Now I’m hiding behind a pillar in the hallway that leads to the rec room.”
The silence returns, and I can picture the burning frustration from the other end of the phone. He’s probably going to make me pay later for tailing him.
“Go down to the lowest level of the parking structure, where the employees park. Ask if you can’t find it, and wait for me there.”
That instruction falls on deaf ears because the men continue walking toward the rec room, and I would never allow armed men to approach a room full of immunocompromised children.
So I pivot and hustle down the corridor in the opposite direction, ensuring they notice me, and then I start running.
If they’re stalking Marco, it’s probably to find me. Now that I’ve been identified, they’ll come after me instead.
When I hear the men chasing after me, I pick up my pace.
My body doesn’t know this hospital, and right now, I’m wearing sneakers not designed for sprinting.
My hammering pulse nearly rattles my teeth as I scan the wide hallways, the clear signage, and the helpful arrows directing people toward elevators.
I need to get on one of them, but the thought of these men getting into one with me, with other people present, is terrifying. So I head for the alternative instead. After two wrong turns, I finally locate the glowing red “Stairwell” sign.
The stairwell door gives under my shoulder, and I take the steps two at a time. Five minutes later, I burst into the parking structure on the second level, my lungs struggling to pump enough air and my heart conducting a percussion solo against my rib cage. Before heading to the lower level, I take a breather.
The air smells of oil and hot concrete. A few cars idle nearby, and a woman unloads a blanket from the back of a minivan.
Witnesses. Good.
I bend at the waist and drag in a breath that feels about two sizes too small for my chest. Below me, the stairwell door slams open.
I peer over the metal railing as Marco calls out for me. When he spots me, he dashes up from the first level. He must’ve run quite fast to have gotten here this quickly, but he’s not breathing hard or showing any sign of fatigue. Frankly, I find his cardiovascular conditioning offensive.
He reaches my level of the structure in seconds.
“Marco!”
I barely even finish yelling his name before his whole face transforms . The softness from a moment ago vanishes, replaced by the cold focus I’ve only glimpsed in his old fighting footage. His jaw locks, his eyes go flat, and the man I knew disappears behind a mask of tactical precision as he catalogues every car and shadow before his gaze locks with mine.
“Are you okay? Why the hell did you follow me here? I told you to stay at the villa—”
He stops mid-sentence. His posture changes in an instant—shoulders squaring, weight shifting forward, one hand reaching behind him to push me against the wall—and then he steps directly in front of me, transforming his body into a barrier.
Before I can process what’s happening, time fractures.
The suppressed shot’s muffled crack amplifies into a boom in the parking structure. Marco’s shoulder jolts. His body rocks backward into mine, and the momentum slams my spine against the concrete.
An instant later, I feel warm fluid spreading against the hand I have pressed to his back. Blood. His blood is soaking through fabric, slick against my fingers.
