I scramble to my feet, nearly falling when my legs try to give out, and run. Past Antonio’s body, past the blood and destruction, through the splintered remains of the door.
The hallway is worse than the bedroom. Bodies everywhere. Antonio’s guards, I guess, are all dead. Shot or stabbed or beaten. The walls are painted with blood.
Don’t look. Just run.
But I can’t just run. Not yet.
Maya. Jennifer. Lisa. Carmen. Rachel.
The other girls.
Where are they?
My nurse training kicks in despite the terror screaming at me to flee. I check the first room I pass. Empty. The second. Empty too.
Where are they?
I’m running through the mansion now, throwing open doors, looking for any sign of the five girls I was locked up with. But every room is empty or full of bodies that aren’t theirs.
Moved. They must have been moved before the attack.
Gunshots ring out somewhere below me. Voices shouting in Italian. The sound of something heavy crashing to the floor.
You can’t help them if you’re dead. Run.
I force myself to abandon the search and head for the stairs. My bare feet are silent on the marble as I fly down them, taking them two at a time. The front door is ahead, massive and hanging open.
I burst through it into the New York night and the cold air hits me like a slap. I’m still wearing just my torn scrubs and bare feet and it’s freezing but I don’t stop.
I run down the long driveway, past expensive cars and manicured gardens, toward the gate that’s standing open. No guards. They’re all dead or fighting inside.
Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Just run.
I hit the street and my feet scream in protest as they meet rough pavement. Glass and pebbles cut into my soles, but I ignore it. Pain means I’m alive.
Where do I go? Police? No. They’ll ask questions I can’t answer. Hospital? They’ll call the police.
I just keep running, no destination in mind, just trying to put distance between me and that mansion of horrors.
But even as I run, Antonio’s dying whisper echoes in my head.
“…saint…watches…”
What does it mean? Was he trying to tell me something? Or was it just the random firing of a dying brain?
Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting away.
I turn a corner and nearly crash into a group of people spilling out of a building. Music pulses from inside, bass so heavy andloud I can feel it in my chest. Lights flash through the open door. It’s a club.
The bouncer looks at me—barefoot, clothing torn, covered in blood, and his eyes widen.
“Miss, are you?—”
I push past him before he can finish. Into the crowd. Into the noise, chaos and darkness.
Hide. Blend in. Disappear like he told you to.
It’s a masked club. Half the people inside are wearing elaborate masks, faces hidden. Venetian style, feathered, jewelled. Anonymous. Perfect.
