Chapter 4 #2
"Negative." Military precision slips into my voice. "Can't confirm, but signs point that way. Tactical approach. Weapons choice. Timing."
I shouldn't be telling her this. It's not my place. But the relief that flashes across her face at getting even this small piece of information makes me continue.
"Three men I took down had Eastern European features. No identifying marks or tattoos that I could see. Professional hit squad."
She absorbs this, while searching the walls again.
"Your brothers will handle it."
"And how many people will die in the handling?" she asks quietly.
I don't answer that. We both know the Feretti response to an attack this direct will be swift and bloody. It's not my concern. My job is to protect her, not philosophize about her family's vengeance.
Something's shifting in her expression again. The tight line of her mouth, the rapid blink of her eyes.
"Panic room's a bit of a misnomer, isn't it?" Her voice comes out higher than normal. "Since I'm actually starting to panic."
The change happens fast. Her breathing quickens, shallow gulps of air that won't fill her lungs. Her eyes dart around the concrete walls, widening with each sweep. Sweat beads along her hairline despite the cool air.
"Walls." She presses her palms flat against the cot. "Too close. Can't... can't breathe."
I recognize what's happening immediately. PTSD flashback, claustrophobia trigger. I've seen it in combat veterans, myself included after bad missions. But with Lucrezia, it's different. I know what caused hers.
"Eyes on me, Lu." I lower my weapon, keeping it in hand but pointing down. "Focus here."
She shakes her head, chest heaving. "They locked us in. No windows. Just like—" Her voice breaks.
Just like the room where those men took her. Where they held her and Damiano. Where they hurt her while making her brother listen.
I move carefully, telegraphing every motion. "Permission to approach?"
She doesn't answer, lost in the horror playing behind her eyes.
Protocol says maintain distance. Professional boundaries. But protocol didn't account for Lucrezia Feretti having a full-blown panic attack in a locked room with only me to help her.
I holster my weapon and kneel in front of her, not touching, just entering her line of sight.
"Lucrezia." I use her full name, keeping my voice steady. "You're in the Venetian Rose. With me. Daniel Hayes. Head of security."
Her eyes find mine, but they're distant, seeing something else.
"Feel the cot beneath you." I place my hand on the metal frame, not on her. "Cold metal. Different from... before."
Her fingers clutch at the thin mattress.
I need to pull her back now.
"Lucrezia," I say firmly. "I need you to focus. We're going to do something."
She doesn't respond.
"I'm going to point to things, and I need you to name them. Can you do that?"
A tiny nod. Progress.
I point to the water bottle on the small table. "What's this?"
Her breathing hitches. For a moment, I think she's too far gone to respond.
"W-water bottle," she finally whispers.
"Good. What color is it?"
She blinks, focusing on the object. "Clear. With... with a blue cap."
"That's right." I point to the emergency light above the door. "And this?"
"Light." Her voice is steadier now. "Emergency light."
I move my finger to the security panel by the door. "This one?"
"Security panel." She takes a deeper breath. "The one Melania's trying to hack."
"Correct." I continue, pointing to the cot she's sitting on. "And what's this?"
"Cot. Metal frame." Her fingers loosen their death grip on the edge. "Thin mattress."
I nod, watching her breathing slow. The technique is working. Giving her brain something concrete to focus on, pulling her out of the flashback.
"What am I wearing?" I ask, gesturing to my suit.
Her eyes travel over me, more present now. "Black suit. White shirt. No tie."
"And what's that on your wrist?"
She looks down, touching the delicate piece of jewelry. "My mother's bracelet. Diamond and platinum."
"Good. Now breathe with me." I exaggerate my breathing, slow and deep. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
She tries, her chest hitching on each inhale.
"That's it. Again."
Minutes pass like this, me coaching her breathing while fighting every protective instinct screaming at me to pull her against my chest, to physically shield her from memories I can't protect her from.
Gradually, her breathing slows. Her eyes regain focus.
"Daniel," she whispers, recognition returning.
"Present and accounted for." The corner of my mouth lifts in what might be the closest thing to a smile I've managed in her presence.
She reaches out, trembling fingers hovering above my arm before withdrawing. "I'm sorry."
"No apology needed."
"I thought I was getting better."
"You are." I risk moving to sit beside her on the cot, keeping a careful distance. "PTSD doesn't heal linear."
Her surprised look reminds me I don't usually say this much.
"Combat experience," I explain shortly.
She nods, understanding washing over her face. We sit in silence for a moment, her breathing evening out completely.
"Thank you," she says finally. "For talking me through it."
Something hot and fierce twists in my chest. The need to protect her warring with an entirely different kind of need.
I've never allowed myself to acknowledge how she affects me. How since the day Damiano assigned me as her security detail, I've been fighting a losing battle against wanting her. How her smile, rare as it is these days, makes me forget every rule I've ever made for myself.
But seeing her vulnerable like this, trusting me to guide her through terror—it breaks something open inside me.
I stand abruptly, putting necessary distance between us.
"Should try to rest," I say, voice rougher than intended. "You've been through a lot today."
I return to my position by the door, back straight, eyes forward. Professional. Detached. Everything I need to be.
Everything I can't seem to be when it comes to her.