“One hour,” I say. “Get everyone.”
He nods. Backs out. The door closes.
Isabella is already moving. Pulling her hair up. Finding her shoes. The version of her that runs on caffeine and fury and sheer will.
She stops at the door. Turns back. Not soft. Not tender. Something fiercer than both.
“Sofia first,” she says. “Then Paolo.”
“Then Paolo.” I hold her gaze. “You have my word.”
She leaves. I sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets still warm where she was.
Then I get up. Get dressed.
Become what she needs me to be.
21
ISABELLA
The compound moves like a heartbeat. Men in tactical gear flood the hallways, checking gear, adjusting earpieces. Marco’s voice cuts through the comms system, rattling off coordinates I’ve memorized a dozen times. Somewhere below, engines rumble to life in the underground garage. Tonight, Sofia comes home.
I check my jacket pockets for the third time. Phone. Earpiece. The small USB drive Marco gave me in case I need to access their systems remotely. My hands are steady. Third pocket check.
Lorenzo appears at my side. He’s dressed for war. Black tactical pants, Kevlar vest over a fitted shirt, holster at his hip. His face is locked into stone, but when his gaze finds mine, the hard line of his mouth loosens. Just for a second.
“Ready?” His voice is low. Just for me.
“Since the day she was taken.”
He nods once. His hand finds my lower back, warm through the thin fabric of my jacket. Guiding. Possessive in a way that used to make me tense but now settles something in my chest.
“Stay close to me tonight,” he says as we move into the corridor. “Don’t engage. If something goes wrong, you run.”
“I’m not leaving without Sofia.”
“You run to the extraction point. I’ll bring her to you.”
I want to argue, but his voice catches. Not a command. His mother. What it cost him. What he couldn’t bring back.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll run.”
His shoulders drop a fraction. His thumb traces a small circle against my spine, and I lean into the touch without thinking. My body leans before my brain says go.
We move through the compound, passing men who nod at him with respect cut by fear. I’ve learned the hierarchy. Dante gives orders. Lorenzo enforces them. Tonight, everyone moves like they know the stakes.
“The others already staging?” I ask.
“Nico and Dante are staging at the rendezvous. Marco’s running comms from the security room.”
“And we’re?”
“Taking the secondary route. Less exposure.”
I don’t question it. He reads this compound the way I read code. Every corridor, every shortcut, every shadow. If he says secondary route, I follow.
We turn left instead of right. The hallway narrows. Quieter here, away from the chaos of preparation. Our footsteps echo against marble floors.
