My stomach drops, pulling my internal organs into a cold, hard knot. The truth, already suspected, lands with a gut-punching certainty: He's going to kill Dante. That's why he's been watching the window, checking the gun over and over again, the nervous clicking of the safety a constant, terrifying soundtrack to my captivity. He's not waiting to escape; he's waiting for the target to arrive.
My pulse hammers so hard against the bone of my wrist that it feels like it might burst the skin. "Danny," I whisper, my voice cracking, "listen to me—"
"Shut up," he snaps, rubbing a trembling hand over his face. His eyes are bloodshot, huge, haunted by shadows only he can see. "You don't understand. If I don't do this, they'll kill me. They'll kill us. You don't know what they promised. You don't know what they'll take if I fail."
"Danny, please." I lean forward as much as the tie allows, trying to inject some trace of reason into the abyss of his panic. "They'll kill you anyway. You know that. The Russians don't leave witnesses, especially not messy, compromised assets like you."
He laughs, and it's not the sound of my brother—it's something hollow, broken, a noise without joy or sanity. "You don't get to talk about leaving witnesses, Isa. You brought him into our lives. You gave him access to our history, our vulnerabilities. You think the Morettis protect anyone but themselves? You think he cares about you more than his empire?"
I shake my head, tears of pain and sheer frustration slipping free. He has twisted everything. "Dante saved me. He saw me. He's not—"
"He's the reason for all of this!" he yells, spinning toward me, his movements jerky and unpredictable. The gun, a heavy black sentinel of impending violence, trembles in his hand, pointed loosely toward the floor. "You made me do this, Isa! You made me choose! You chose his warmth over my survival!"
A sound.
It's subtle, distant, but in the echoing stillness of the room, it's deafening. The crunch of heavy tires on gravel. Not the quick pass of a civilian car, but a low, sustained grinding, followed by the muffledthumpof doors closing.
My heart lurches, seizing in my chest. He's here. Dante is here.
Danny hears it too. His head jerks toward the dirty window, breath quickening, all his chaotic energy suddenly channeled into a terrifying, laser-like focus. His shoulders square. He isn't scared anymore; he's lethal. "He's here."
Oh God.
"Danny," I whisper, struggling to pull my zip-tied wrists up, scrambling desperately to my feet, my legs numb. "Don't do this. Don't ruin us both."
He ignores me, raising the gun slowly, deliberately, toward the door. His face is a blank mask of determination, the last vestige of my brother gone.
"Danny, please!"
I move before I can think. The sharp, frantic instinct for survival—for Dante's survival—overrides the searing pain in my wrists and the numbness in my legs. Launching forward, I manage a clumsy, desperate lunge. I crash into him.
The impact is messy, all flailing limbs and unexpected weight. The gun goes off—loud, deafening, the sound a physical wave of concussion that slams against my eardrums. Plaster dust rains down from the ceiling; glass from the boarded window shatters under the pressure. The acrid smell of gunpowder fills the room, heavy and metallic.
"Stop!" I scream, my voice raw, clawing blindly at his arm, trying to dislodge the weapon.
He curses, a primal sound of rage and frustration, twisting violently. His elbow slams into my ribs with crushing force. Pain explodes through my left side, so sharp and absolute that my vision flashes white. I gasp, the air knocked from my lungs, but I don't let go. I have to stop him. I have to buy Dante time. I have to—
He hits me.
Asharp, brutal crack across the side of my face. The force is tremendous. My head snaps sideways, a dull ringing instantly replacing the gunshot echo. Before I can catch myself, he grabs my shoulders, his fingers digging like claws, and shoves.
The wall meets me hard. My skull hits the crumbling plaster with a sickeningthud, stars bursting behind my eyes in a dazzling, blinding display. The pain is a huge, wet wave. I slide down to the floor, my legs useless, vision swimming, the world tilting drunkenly, refusing to stay horizontal.
Everything sounds distant—the echo of heavy boots outside, the sharp scrape of a lock being forced, the sudden rush of wind as the door flies inward, hitting the wall with violent force.
Then—
A gunshot.
Louder than the first. Closer. Final.
I flinch, my ears ringing so severely that the sound feels trapped inside my own head. The room fills with a fresh plume of dust and thick gunsmoke, stinging my eyes.
When the haze clears, pushing the smoke from my lungs, I see him. Danny's on the floor, an impossible sprawl of limbs. Still. Silent.
And then he's there—
Dante. He fills my entire field of vision, storming across the room in a few long, furious strides, his coat whipping behind him like a dark banner. His face is a mask of brutal, visceral emotion.His eyes are wild, the two-day tangle of fury and fear compressed into a single, terrifying expression.
