Her mouth tightens, but for once, she knows she can’t argue back.
I look at Vito and Nico.
I point to the cabinet. “There are two long guns in the rear compartment. Manual lock, code is six-one-seven-two. Ammunition underneath. Extra sidearm in the small case. If anyone breaches this room who isn’t me, make them pay.”
Nico swears viciously under his breath. “I hate this.”
I turn toward the door.
Caterina has not moved.
She is standing between me and the door.
“Move,” I tell her again.
“No.”
This time her voice is not breaking.
This time it is pure Conti.
“You are not going out there alone.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Then don’t waste it pretending I’m going to step aside because you use that voice.”
My temper flashes hot.
Not at her.
At the situation. At the black screens. At the bodies on the lawn. At whoever planned this well enough to get this close. At the fact that she is standing in front of me in a wine-colored dress she picked out for dinner with her siblings tonight, and now has fear in her eyes.
“You think I want to leave you in here?” I ask, voice low.
“I think you’re too ready to run toward bullets,” she says stubbornly.
“I’m ready to do my job.”
“Protecting me is your job.”
The words hit me hard.
Because they’re not true anymore.
Maybe they never were.
Protecting her was never just a job. It was always more than that.
And I can’t say any of that now, in this room, in front of her family, with gunfire possibly minutes away from the door.
I step closer and lower my voice so only she hears. “Cat.”
Her lips part.
That name gets through in a way the command does not.
“I need you to move,” I say. “Please.”
