Chapter 2 - ATLAS
It was a candy wrapper that was her undoing.
I found her in the pantry—quite by chance—after I ducked into the kitchen to make sure there were no Trimboli survivors. I was met with the sound of crackling from the walk in pantry beyond the expansive chef’s kitchen.
I flung the pantry door open and there she was.
The girl looked up at me. And everything stopped.
Her hazel eyes weren’t pleading. They were empty. Shocked. Like she’d already crossed whatever line separated the living from the dead.
A child shouldn’t look like that.
My stomach twisted once. It was a fast, unwanted feeling, and I shoved it down, hard.
Do it, Atlas. Finish the job. Don’t make this harder than it already was.
She flinched as I pressed the gun deeper into her temple. Her hands shook, tapping against the tile. She probably couldn’t have stopped it if she tried. Her breath hitched in her chest like it hurt her to breathe.
Why did that look in her eyes matter so much to me? And when she whispered that plea…low and mournful… I shouldn’t have cared. I should have just pulled the trigger. But for some unknown reason, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
My grip tightened. My jaw locked. I hated myself for being a coward. For freezing and letting mercy have a seat at the table. I hated that one small, terrified girl could get under my skin and change the trajectory of the night.
I raised the gun again, forcing the instinct back into place. My conscience warred with me even as my inner voice tried to override it.
Just do it.
Kill her.
End it.
But her eyes didn’t close. She just stared at me, her lips trembling, waiting for the shot that would kill her. She looked me straight in the eyes, terrified but delivering a dare I could not turn away from.
Goddamn it.
I stood and turned my back on her as I heard the sound of my men approaching, calling out as they cleared room after room.
“Atlas?”
There was a voice from the hallway. My body moved before I told it to. I stepped in front of her quickly, blocking her from view.
“Clear,” I said, voice steady.
“But—”
“Clear.”
My men retreated.
I didn’t look at her again, but I felt her watching me like she was trying to understand why she was still breathing. I didn’t know why, either. And that was the part that scared me.
I moved fast, leaving no room for chance.
The girl was small enough to lift with one hand. I dragged her by the arm, her feet sliding across the tiles. She didn’t resist me. She was still in shock, eyes glassy, breath uneven.
I shoved her into a corner at the back of the pantry, past rows and rows of groceries that would take a lifetime to use. It was a space that was half concealed and narrow, but it was perfect.
I pointed to the space and pushed her forward.
“Stay there.”
She didn’t move for a second. Then she stepped forward, limbs shaking. She curled into the corner, hugging her knees. She wouldn’t be seen if anyone checked, but I started to think if nothing else did, maybe the dark would claim her.
I stood there a moment, listening to the quiet. Then I turned away when I heard footsteps behind me.
“Atlas?”
It was my younger brother Marcello, and he was a little too close for comfort.
“Everyone out,” I ordered. “We’re done here.”
He blinked. “We haven’t swept the basement.”
“There is no basement,” I lied smoothly.
He didn’t move right away. His eyes narrowed, keen and probing.
Good work, Atlas, I applauded myself, you dumbass. Way to draw more attention to yourself.
“There’s no such thing as a house with no basement,” he reminded me. “The Trimboli family is big on them. Storage. Panic rooms. Smuggling tunnels. You know that.”
I held his stare. “And I’m telling you this one doesn’t.”
Marcello stepped closer, lowering his voice, testing my patience. “Then let’s check it. Two minutes. If it’s empty, it’s empty.”
“No.” My tone cut clean, but he still didn’t back off.
“Atlas, we don’t leave loose ends.” His hand twitched toward his gun, not as a threat but out of habit. “Not after what they did to our grandfather.”
I gritted my teeth. “I said it’s clear.”
He looked at me like he was deciding whether to push it. Marcello had always been too curious for his own good, always one question away from getting shot by the wrong person.
He glanced toward the back hallway. “I’ll just take a look—”
I stepped into his path. “You’re not hearing me. The house is done. Move the men out.”
He searched my face again, suspicion creeping in. “You hiding something?”
My pulse spiked once, quick, controlled. “More bodies. If you want your men traumatised by what’s down there, by all means… go right ahead.”
He studied me another beat, jaw tight, then finally exhaled. “Fine. But if someone crawls out of this place after we torch it, that’s on you.”
“It won’t happen.”
He still looked unconvinced, but he turned and called out to the others, voice echoing down the hall.
“Pull back! We’re moving out!”
Only when his footsteps faded and the last soldier stepped outside did I finally breathe.
I watched as the the last vehicle engine started outside, moving slowly down the expansive drive. I exhaled a slow release of tension I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I went to the kitchen and grabbed the gas can we’d brought with us. I snapped the cap open and began pouring. First I doused the curtains. Then the hallway carpet. Then the chair legs and broken picture frames. Everything that would burn fast.
I struck the match and touched it to the soaked curtain.
It ignited instantly, climbing upward with a hollow crackle.
I watched for a second. Long enough to confirm the fire was spreading exactly how I needed it to.
It had to be a clean burn that left no trace that we were ever here and there were no survivors.
Except the one I was hiding in the dark.
I moved quickly back to the pantry and let her out. The heat was already building, smoke creeping along the floor.
“Come on.”
She stared at the smoke behind me like she thought she’d disappear with the house. I grabbed her wrist, pulled her out, slammed the pantry door shut again as though shutting the door on my own betrayal.
She coughed when the smoke hit her throat. She stumbled. I tightened my grip and dragged her out the back door, keeping low as flames began crawling along the roofline.
Outside, the air hit cold and piercing.
The girl blinked against the night, dazed and shivering.
Her nightgown was coated in blood and filth, doing nothing to ward off the chill.
She looked unsteady, exhausted, and close to collapsing.
But I couldn’t let her condition get to me.
I’d already spared her once, against every rule I was supposed to follow.
I’d known it was a mistake the second I did it.
I just hoped this small act of mercy—or more likely my own weakness—wouldn’t come back to haunt me.
I shoved her into the backseat of my car.
She folded into the corner immediately, knees to her chest, arms locked around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces of her body together. She was shaking so hard I could hear the relentless rattle of her teeth.
I started the engine.
The fire behind us caught fast, roaring up the walls of the house with a hunger that felt personal. Flames twisted through the broken windows and chewed their way through the timber until the whole structure buckled. It screamed before it collapsed, a violent, final sound.
The end of her life as she’d understood it.
The end of whatever she was before I found her.
Erased by fire.
In the rearview mirror, the girl kept her gaze pinned to the window. Wide, empty eyes tracking the growing inferno as if she was watching herself burn inside it.
Good. Better she understood that nothing remained of her former life.
I told myself this was mercy. That dragging her out of that house was an act of grace from a man who never gave it. I told myself she was no threat. Just a shaking, ruined thing with no power.
I knew both were lies.
Mercy was not in my nature.
And threats rarely looked like threats at first — they started small, helpless, quiet.
They started just like this.