Chapter 16
T he tension between us curdles in the darkness. I wait for her to flinch, to back down.
"That doesn't mean I'm wrong," she says, her voice steady despite the slight tremor I detect beneath it. "My boyfriend in London—James—he fucked around too."
I don't respond, just watch her silhouette as her tone shifts, becomes rawer.
"He claimed he loved me." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Then I caught him with another woman. And even after I found out, he kept chasing me with all these filthy excuses about how he didn't want to hurt me, how it was a mistake."
The image of some prick hurting her makes something dark and violent stir in my chest.
"So yes, I had a boyfriend." I have to strain to catch her whisper. "That's what I meant when I said I was heartbroken when I left London."
So the princess has been betrayed before. It explains the walls she's built, the suspicion behind her eyes even when she's vulnerable.
I roll my shoulder, feeling the pull of the fresh bandage. The darkness between us feels suddenly heavier than the gun at my back.
"I had someone once," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "Violet."
Melania shifts on her mattress, her silhouette turning toward me. "What happened?"
"She left." I stare at the ceiling, tracking the exposed pipes with my eyes.
"Why did she leave?"
"She saw me covered in blood one night. Not mine." The memory surfaces—Violet's face draining of color, her hand covering her mouth, her blue eyes wide with horror. "What woman could love a killer?"
The warehouse creaks around us, the sound filling the silence between my words.
"You were together long?" Melania asks, her voice softer than I've heard it before.
"Six months." I run my thumb along my bottom lip, remembering. "Long enough to start thinking about things I had no business considering."
"Like what?"
I don't answer that. Some wounds shouldn't be reopened.
"She belongs to another life," I say instead. "Years ago."
Melania's quiet for a moment. "Did you love her?"
The question hangs between us. I consider lying but what's the point? We're fugitives in a warehouse with killers hunting us. Truth seems like the smallest risk.
"I thought I did." I shift, the mattress springs protesting beneath me. "Turns out I just loved the idea of being someone else. Someone who could have that life."
"And now?"
"Now I know better." My voice hardens. "This is who I am. No point pretending otherwise."
The silence stretches between us, filled with all the things neither of us is saying. I can almost hear her thinking, processing this glimpse behind my wall.
"Get some sleep, Melania," I say finally. "Tomorrow will be worse than today."
I turn away from her, facing the wall. This conversation has already gone further than it should have. Sharing war stories with her. But something about the darkness, about nearly dying together, makes the usual rules feel distant.
"Goodnight, Alessio," she says softly, the mattress squeaking as she turns away too.
I don't respond. The woman is already taking up too much space in my head.
My arm throbs beneath the bandage. I buck to find a more comfortable position, keeping my injured side up. Despite the exhaustion weighing on my bones, sleep feels distant. The events of the day replay behind my closed eyelids—the car chase, the gunfight, her hands steady as she cleaned my wound.
I check my phone once more, making sure the volume is at maximum.
Damiano's security system is state-of-the-art, designed to connect with specific phones each time.
The moment anyone breaches the perimeter, an alert will sound.
My keys rest beside the phone, within easy reach.
If the alarm sounds again we'll be out the door in seconds.
The warehouse creaks and settles around us. Every sound puts me on edge. Raymond's men found us once, they could find us again.
I listen for Melania's breathing to even out, but it doesn't. She's as awake as I am, mind probably jumping about with the same thoughts. Two strangers on thin mattresses, backs turned to each other, both waiting for the next threat.
My hand instinctively checks the gun tucked at my lower back. The metal is cool against my fingertips, reassuring. I've slept with a weapon for so long I can't remember what it feels like not to.
Exhaustion tugs at me but I fight it off. I need to stay alert, ready. Melania's safety depends on me now. The thought should irritate me—I never asked to be responsible for Antonio Lombardi's daughter—but instead, it settles something inside me. Having a clear mission always does.
I force my muscles to relax one by one, a technique I learned years ago. Rest without sleep. The body recovers while the mind stays vigilant.
Across the small space between us Melania's breathing finally begins to slow and deepen. Good. At least one of us will get some actual sleep.
I jolt awake, my heart skittering under my ribs. Sunlight filters through the grimy warehouse windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The events of yesterday flood back—the car chase, the gunshots, bandaging Alessio's wound.
Alessio.
I turn toward his mattress, my pulse quickening when I find it empty. The blanket lies rumpled and abandoned. His absence sends a spike of panic through me. Did Raymond's men find us? Did he leave me here?
"Good morning."
The deep voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I whip my head toward the sound and find Alessio sitting in a metal folding chair near one of the windows.
He's positioned strategically—back to the wall, clear view of both the entrance and my sleeping area.
His gun rests on his thigh, his hand casually draped over it.
"You're here," I breathe, relief washing over me.
His expression remains impassive but there's a flicker in his eyes. "Where else would I be?"
I push myself up to sitting, running fingers through my tangled hair. Alessio looks different this morning—closed off, distant. The man who shared stories about Violet in the darkness has vanished, replaced by the cold enforcer I first met.
"How's your arm?" I ask, nodding toward his bandaged wound.
"Fine." His answer is clipped, final.
He stands, moving with decisive force despite his injury. "We need to start working on the drive."
I nod, gathering my thoughts. "I'll need to rebuild everything from scratch."
"Then you better get to it." He’s all business now. "The longer we take, the more time they have to find us."
"I need to use the bathroom first," I say, pushing myself to my feet.
Alessio gestures toward a door in the corner without comment. He rises from his chair and moves to the makeshift kitchen area, giving me space without being asked. His back is rigid, shoulders set in a hard line.
Last night's conversation hangs between us like smoke—visible but impossible to grasp. Whatever momentary connection we shared has clearly made him uncomfortable. The walls are back up, higher than before.
I watch him for a moment, wondering if mentioning Violet triggered this retreat. Some wounds never fully heal, just scab over enough to allow function. I understand that better than most.
Without another word I head for the bathroom, feeling his eyes track my movement. The enforcer is back on duty, and whatever glimpse I had of the man beneath has been carefully locked away again.
I lock the bathroom door behind me, leaning against it for a moment. The small room is bare—just a toilet, sink, and a cracked mirror that fragments my reflection into jagged pieces. Perfect metaphor for my life right now.
After using the toilet I turn the faucet. The pipes groan before sputtering out a stream of ice-cold water. I cup my hands beneath it, splashing my face and gasping at the shock of cold. It's exactly what I need—something to jolt me fully awake, to clear the fog of sleep and fear.
I stare at my fractured reflection as water drips down my chin. Dark circles shadow my eyes. My hair is a tangled mess. I twist my mother's ring around my finger, taking comfort in its familiar weight.
You can do this.You have to.
When I emerge from the bathroom Alessio is waiting, a sleek black laptop in his hand. His expression remains unreadable but his eyes track my every movement.
I take it from him, our fingers brushing momentarily. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He runs his thumb along his bottom lip. "We can't have coffee at the moment. Supply situation is... limited."
"It's fine," I say, though my body aches for caffeine.
"After you extract the first files we're changing locations." He walks to the security monitors, checking them briefly. "Somewhere better than this."
I nod, already opening the laptop and assessing its capabilities. "I don't mind. This place has served its purpose."
Alessio watches me as I settle onto the mattress with the computer balanced on my knees. "How long?"
I pull up a command prompt, fingers flying across the keyboard as I establish the parameters for my work. "Six, maybe seven hours for the first layer of extraction."
"Seven hours," he repeats, checking his watch. "We move at three, then."
I look up at him, finding his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. "I'll be ready."
He nods once, then turns away, giving me space to work. I focus on the screen, diving into the familiar world of code and encryption where everything makes sense, where I have control.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, executing commands with total confidence. Despite the stress of our situation, there's comfort in this work—the logical patterns, the predictable responses, the sense of control I've always found in technology.
"Here."
Alessio's voice pulls me from my concentration. He stands beside the mattress, holding out a bottle of water.
"I'll prepare something to eat at least," he says, his voice less rigid than before. "The water is drinkable. Not filtered, but safe."