I’m yanked back before I can make a decision. The door swings outward, like a fridge.
White. It’s very white inside, the utter lack of color blinding. The exception is the silver cage against one wall. It’s massive, similar in size to a holding cell at a jail. Large enough for a person or persons. I’m tugged left, toward it. The door swings shut, closing with an ominous click. The man from the shuttle lingers by the entrance-slash-exit, waiting for the other guard to deal with me.
This is my last chance. I might have already waited too long.
I twist out of the guard’s hold on my arm, then jab my elbow into his nose, resulting in a satisfying crack as cartilage separates from bone. His hands fly up to his face, and I grab his gun from his belt. Take one step back and fire. He falls. I shoot again, higher, before pivoting toward the other guard. Shock is visible on his face, but his gun is already out and raised. Wefire simultaneously. I feel the burn as his bullet grazes my bicep. Mine hits his stomach. His gun is still raised. I shoot again. And again, the final shot steadiest.
He’s dead, eyes vacant beneath the hole in his forehead. I turn back to the first man, confirming he is too.
Once that registers, my arm starts to hurt a lot more. Warm liquid is dripping down my arm. Some stains the cute sundress I changed into before leaving for lunch, wrinkled from the car trip.
I hunt through the metal drawers attached to one wall, finally locating some medical supplies. They must treat prisoners so they can torture them for longer. There’s an industrial sink, too, that I use to rinse away the blood before cleaning and covering the wound. No painkillers anywhere, which is probably for the best. This is far from over, and I need a clear head. The throb of pain lends a sense of urgency.
Another keypad is located on this side of the door. I walk over and type in the numbers the guard entered. The light remains red, not green.
The blood remaining in my body chills. The codes must be different for each keypad. If I’d waited for one of the guards to enter it, I would have already been locked away. But being trapped in a dead end isn’t ideal either. I have a gun, but I’m nervous to try shooting my way out. The metal door appears solid enough that the shot could ricochet.
“That was very stupid, Carina.”
I whirl, looking for the camera. I can’t find it or a speaker. The white sterility surrounding me is blinding. Like being stuck in a lab or a hospital. Nico can see me, so I assume he can hear me too.
“Says the man who stole from Lev Sokolov.” I smile, tightening my hold on the handle of my stolen gun. Nico couldbe standing on the other side of the door, about to enter at any moment. “He’s going to kill you.”
“I hope he hurries.” Nico sounds amused, not concerned. “You don’t have much time left.”
I’m not sure I believe him. Once I’m dead, he can’t use me as bait or blackmail. I think it’s a bluff to scare me, but I wasn’t expecting him to execute Isabella either.
“What do you want, Nico?”
No answer. Probably another scare tactic.
I drag the two men into one corner, breathing through my mouth the entire time. A feat I couldn’t have managed a month ago, physically or mentally. I’m stronger in both senses, and I’m furious with myself for ending up in this situation anyway.
Mad at Salvatore, the sole reason Nico Morello knows I exist.
Scared.
And alone, nothing except silence and the smell of copper keeping me company.
ALREADY GONE
Right after the pasta course is delivered, one of Salvatore’s men enters the private dining room with a cell phone that he hands to his boss. I glance out the window, at the neat rows of grapes stretching as far as I can see, attempting to offer some privacy. This meal has been shockingly civil so far. I don’t want the Carusos thinking I’m here to secretly spy on their business matters.
“Lev.”
My attention snaps to Salvatore, as I’m startled he’s addressing me instead of one of his sons.
Immediately, I tense.
Something is wrong. Very wrong. The older man’s tanned skin is unnaturally pale. He looks scared, not surprised, like when he entered this house this morning. And nervous.
“Carina was taken.”
I stare at him. Then ask, very slowly and deliberately, “What did you say?”
Salvatore swallows nervously. “She was taken from my restaurant. She told the guard she was going to meet Isabella?—”
I stand abruptly. My knee hits the edge of the table, hard, causing the dishes to clatter, yet I hardly register the sound or the pain. I need to strategize, to detach, but there’s a wall of rage blocking any rational thought. I sweep the plates and bowls and glasses in my immediate vicinity off the surface and onto the floor. They shatter, breaking the stunned silence, the sound reminding me of leaving Serebryanovo with Carina for our wedding. We’ve only been married a few weeks. We’re supposed to have forever.
