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My nails raked his exposed wrist, drawing blood.

Lurching backward, he reached behind him, then swung forward, gun in hand.

The air seized in my lungs as I stared down the barrel.

This was it.

This was how I died…

Shot down in the streets of Rome.

Before the gunman could fire, another man knocked his arm aside.

They argued in heated Italian.

“La vogliamo viva.” We want her alive.

“Non ancora.” Not yet.

“Ordini del capo.” Boss’s orders.

Someone wanted me alive.

Alive…for now. But at whose mercy?

The only man powerful enough to do this was Sebastian Diamanti.

While they were distracted, I scrambled for the door handle behind my back.

My fingers closed around the smooth metal.

I slipped out of my heels and clutched my phone, keeping my eyes on the men furiously shouting at each other.

Time slowed.

Wrenching the handle, I lunged out of the car.

And ran.

My steps slammed against the uneven pavement, every jolt of pain nearly drowned by the drumbeat of terror. I darted down the first narrow alley I could find, hoping it would be harder to follow me. The buildings stood so close that I could touch both sides with outstretched arms.

“Fermala!” Stop her!

My lungs burned as I squeezed through a cramped passageway, the silk of my dress ripping against the stone. I pressed my back to the cold brick, heart jackhammering, vision narrowing to tiny pinpoints.

Each breath came in shallow, desperate pants.

The sounds of the street—tourists chattering, a distant siren, the shouts of my pursuers, all warped and distorted—crashed around me.

Unbidden, his voice whispered through my mind.

Give in to me, dolcezza.

How could those same hands now be orchestrating my death?

I should have known.

The way his eyes would harden when I questioned him.