41. Pietro
Pietro
Valaria doesn’t cry. She doesn’t fall apart.
Even drugged, even unsteady, she lifts her chin and walks out of the crumbling facility like a goddamn queen on my arm—measured, unbroken, daring anyone to doubt her.
Her steps may be slow, but her will is steel, and every inch of her says victory, not survival.
But then we run. I won’t let her fall.
We don’t look back. We don’t have to. What’s behind us is already ash. We burned it down.
The jungle burns. My pant-leg catches fire, but I keep running–dragging Valaria through the flames. Her bare feet stumbling over stones.
Orange licks the treetops. Smoke twists through the clearing like a serpent hungry for more.
Grenades explode around us.
A shot rings out.
Valaria stumbles beside me, one arm slung around my shoulder, blood streaming down her side. Her breaths come shallow and fast, her body shaking from the shock of the heat, the drugs, the bullet wound—they tried to erase her. They almost did.
I heft Valaria’s light frame over my shoulder.
“Almost there,” I growl. My boots sink into wet sand. “Just a little farther.”
But I know there is no rescue. Without hope, I plunge ahead into a tunnel.
Her head drops to my chest. I grip her tighter.
Gunfire cracks behind us. I catch a slug in the ribs. Feels like it’s still spinning inside me, white-hot and pulsing. I can’t think about it. Can’t feel it. Only her.
We reach the beach. I spin, shoving Valaria down into the cover of a fallen log as a bullet hisses past my cheek.
Three Arcadia agents storm the beach, rifles raised.
I return fire, one hand barely steady. I hit the lead one in the knee—he goes down hard—but the others keep coming. No hesitation. No orders. Just execution.
Valaria fumbles with a weapon, tries to raise it. “I’ve got it,” she croaks.
“No.” I press her hand down. “You’re done. I get you out, or I die trying.”
I kiss her hard.
Her eyes fill with something worse than pain. Guilt.
She reaches for my face. Collapses. Unconscious.
I won’t let them have her.
I return fire.
Everything Gavrix taught me pays off. And the old man’s fists made me fight even when everything is lost.
Three down.
One to go.
A sound cuts through the madness.
Low. Rhythmic. Heavy.
Rotor blades.
I glance up.
A helicopter breaches the clouds like a savior from an old war movie, light glinting off its undercarriage. And leaning out the side, in a flight suit and mirrored sunglasses, is the last man I expected to see.
Prince Luca.
He salutes like we’re on a parade ground. Then shouts something I can’t hear.
I wave—frantic—and grab the rope as it swings low.
Valaria rallies. Clutches my jacket, says, “You go. No time.”
“I’m not leaving you?—”
The rotor wash beats down like a hurricane, stirring up dirt, smoke, blood.
I glance up, shielding my eyes. The harness line drops—thick, black, swaying wildly in the crosswind as bullets sizzle the air.
Valaria slumps beside me. Her lips are pale, cracked. Blood streaks down her temple. Part of her robe is burned away revealing burns on her skin. She's slipping—fast.
"Stay with me," I whisper, dropping to my knees beside her.
She tries to speak. No sound comes.
"You're almost out. Just hold on."
I yank the harness looping it around her shoulders, under her thighs, cinching it tight across her chest.
"You’ll be safe," I promise, though my voice catches. “I’ve got you.”
She blinks up at me—barely conscious—but I see it. The shimmer of recognition. Of trust.
“Don’t you dare die,” she whispers with her last breath.
And it guts me.
I wrap my arms around her, lift her—light as memory, heavy as the whole damn world. My ribs scream, the bullet wound in my side pulsing hot with each heartbeat, but I grit through it. I won't let her fall.
I hook her onto the rope.
"Take her!" I shout, waving hard.
The cable jerks upward.
She rises, slow, swaying. Arms limp. Head lolling.
I don’t breathe until she’s halfway to the bird—until Luca leans out of the side door, grabs her, and pulls her in.
Only then do I drop to one knee, chest heaving, vision tunneling.
A sniper’s shot rings out.
The rope descends again.
Another round of gunfire rips into the beach. A bullet grazes my thigh—I curse and limp forward.
Another shot hits me square in the shoulder.
I cry out and fall hard onto my knees. Sand grits into the wound like acid. My fingers scrabble for the rope.
“Pietro!” Valaria’s scream carries over the roar of the blades.
She’s alive. She’s all I live for.
I grit my teeth, wrap my hand around the rope, and hold on tight as the rope pulls me up.
Blood pouring from three holes.
Vision blurring.
“Just a little more,” I mutter. “Just a little?—”
I reach the door. A hand grabs mine.
Luca.
He pulls hard, and I collapse into the chopper, chest heaving, half-dead.
Valaria’s already unstrapped, leaning over me, pressing her forehead to mine.
“I told you to go first,” she breathes.
“I never listen.”
Luca barks something to the pilot, then slaps my good leg. “You look like hell.”
I grin through clenched teeth. “You’re late.”
“Traffic was bad,” he says dryly.
He shakes his head. Somber now.
“Gavrix radioed before his chopper went down. Sent coordinates to save your stubborn ass.”
My heart lurches. Aches. “I’m sorry, Pietro.”
Valaria grips my hand tighter. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
The island vanishes behind us, a smudge of flame and ghosts.
I close my eyes.
.