Chapter 28 Giulia
GIULIA
The room they put me in is small and windowless, lit by a single bare bulb that casts harsh shadows across the concrete walls. There's a metal desk pushed against one wall, a chair that's seen better days, and two guards stationed by the door.
One is older—maybe mid-forties, with an expression on his face that tells me he’s seen too much violence to be moved by much of anything. He stands with his arms crossed, watching me with the detached interest of someone monitoring livestock.
The other is younger. Early twenties, maybe. His eyes keep darting between me and the door, and his hand rests on his weapon like he's not entirely sure what to do with it. He's nervous. I latch onto that, hoping it means I might be able to do something about him.
I've been sitting in this chair for what feels like hours, my hand pressed protectively against my stomach, trying to keep my breathing steady and not think about what Alessandro said. Trying not to imagine all the ways this could end badly.
But I can't just sit here and wait to be rescued or killed. I need to do something.
"What's your name?" My voice cuts through the oppressive silence as I look at the younger guard, twisting to face him.
The young guard's eyes snap to mine. "Shut up."
"I'm just asking your name." I keep my tone as gentle as I can. "I'm Giulia."
"I know who you are." He shifts, sounding uncomfortable.
"Where are you from?" I press, watching his face carefully. "You don't sound like you're from Brooklyn."
"I said shut up." But he shifts his weight, and I can see the uncertainty in his face. The older guard doesn't even look at us. He's staring at the door like he's already bored with this entire situation.
"I'm pregnant," I say quietly, and the young guard's eyes drop to my stomach. "I'm scared. I just want to go home."
"That's not my problem." But his voice has lost some of its edge.
"I know." I swallow hard, letting him see the fear I'm feeling. "I know this isn't personal for you. You're just doing your job. But I'm terrified, and I don't know what's going to happen, and I—" My voice breaks, and I don't have to fake the tears that well up. "I just want my baby to be okay."
The young guard looks away, his jaw tight.
I wait, letting the silence stretch out and letting him sit with what I've said.
I can see the conflict playing out across his features, his sense of duty warring with his conscience.
"If you cooperate," he says finally, his voice low, "nothing bad will happen to you. Just—just stay quiet and cooperate."
I don't believe him. But I nod anyway, wiping at my eyes with shaking hands. "Okay. I'll cooperate. I promise."
He nods, looking relieved that I'm not going to make this harder for him.
I wait a few minutes, letting the silence settle. Then, carefully, I speak again. "Do you have a family?"
"Stop talking."
"I'm sorry. I just—I'm trying not to think about what might happen. Talking helps." I pause, then add softly, "Does your mother know what you do for a living?"
His face goes rigid, and I know I've hit something. "My mother's dead," he says flatly.
"I'm sorry." I bite my lip. “My mother isn’t here any longer, either.”
His gaze flicks to mine. He doesn't respond, but his shoulders drop slightly. The weapon in his hand lowers just a fraction.
"What was her name?" I ask.
His jaw works, and for a moment, I think he’s not going to answer. “Maria,” he says finally. “Made the best lasagna."
"I bet she did." I smile, even though my heart is pounding. "The best food always comes from someone who loves you."
He looks at me, and I can see him struggling, trying to reconcile the job he's been given with the person sitting in front of him.
"You seem like a good person," I say quietly. "I don't think you want to hurt me."
"I don't." The admission comes out before he can stop it, and his face immediately closes off. "But that doesn't matter. I have orders."
"I understand." I keep my voice gentle. "You're loyal. That's admirable. But—" I press my hand against my stomach again, a deliberate gesture. "This baby didn't do anything wrong. Neither did I, really. I just fell in love with the wrong person at the wrong time."
The older guard shifts, and the young one immediately goes silent, his face closing off again. But I saw it—that flicker of connection, that moment where I became a person to him instead of just a job.
The minutes crawl by. I try to send silent reassurances to the baby growing inside me.
It's going to be okay. Your father is coming.
He'll get us out of this. I have to believe that Luca will come, that he'll find a way, that he won't let Alessandro hurt us.
Even though he's spent weeks hating me, even though he's made it clear our marriage is just an obligation, he'll still come.
He has to.
A sudden, sharp crack cuts through my thoughts, jerking me back into reality. Then another, and another.
It’s gunfire.
The young guard's head snaps up, his hand immediately going to his weapon. The older guard moves to the door, listening intently. "What the fuck?" the young one mutters, his voice tight with panic.
I hear more shots, closer now. And shouting—men's voices raised in alarm and aggression. The sounds ricochet off the metal walls, amplified and distorted until I can't tell which direction they're coming from.
"Stay here," the older guard orders, pulling his weapon. "Watch her. Don't let her move." He's out the door before the young guard can respond, leaving us alone.
The young guard is staring at the door, his weapon drawn but his hands shaking slightly. He's terrified. I can hear it in his rapid breathing, see it in the way his eyes keep darting between me and the exit.
This is my chance. Maybe my only chance.
I stand slowly, and his weapon immediately swings toward me. "Sit down!"
"Please." I hold up my hands, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "Please, I just—I need to know what's happening. Is that my family? Are they here?"
"I said sit down!"
But he's not moving toward me. He's frozen, caught between his orders and his fear, and I can see the indecision written across his face. The gunfire is getting louder, closer. I can hear the staccato rhythm of automatic weapons now.
I take a step toward a desk shoved against the wall, and he follows me with the weapon but doesn't fire. "Don't—don't fucking move—"
"I'm not going to run." My voice is shaking, but I force myself to keep moving. "I just—I'm dizzy. I need to sit on the desk. Please."
He hesitates, and in that hesitation, I see my opening.
My hand closes around the paperweight on the desk. It’s heavy, some decorative thing that's probably been sitting here for years, forgotten until now.
I don't think or let myself consider the consequences, the morality, or the fact that I've never hurt anyone in my life. I just move.
The paperweight connects with the side of his head with a sickening thud, and he goes down hard, his weapon clattering across the concrete floor. Blood immediately starts pooling beneath his head.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at what I've done, at the young guard who told me about his dead mother, who was just doing his job, and who I might have just killed.
The gunfire gets closer, and survival instinct kicks in. I run.
The hallway outside the room is chaos. Smoke hangs in the air, making everything hazy and surreal.
I can hear shouting—some in Italian, some in English—and the constant percussion of gunfire echoing off metal walls.
I don't know where I'm going. I turn a corner and nearly run into two men locked in combat.
They're too focused on each other to notice me, and I slip past them, pressing myself against the wall.
There's blood everywhere. On the floor, splattered across the walls, pooling around bodies I don't let myself look at too closely.
I keep moving. Another hallway, more gunfire.
The sound is deafening, disorienting. I can't tell which direction is safe or might lead to an exit.
I duck into a doorway as two soldiers run past, their weapons raised and their faces grim.
One of them is bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, but he doesn't slow down.
The warehouse is a maze. Every corridor looks the same—concrete walls, metal beams, harsh overhead lights that flicker and buzz. I'm completely turned around. I turn another corner and freeze.
A body lies sprawled across the floor, face down in a spreading pool of blood. I can't tell if it's one of ours or one of theirs, if they're dead or just unconscious. I step over them carefully, trying not to slip in the blood, and keep moving.
The gunfire is everywhere now. Behind me, ahead of me, to my left and right. The warehouse has become a war zone, and I'm caught in the middle of it with no weapon, no protection, and nothing but desperate hope that I can find a way out.
I hear footsteps running toward me and press myself into an alcove, holding my breath. Two Marchesi soldiers run past, shouting to each other in Italian. They don't see me. When they're gone, I move again.
My lungs are burning from the smoke. My eyes are watering. Every breath tastes like copper. I'm lost. Completely, utterly lost in this maze of metal and violence. And then I hear it.
"Giulia!"
Luca’s voice cuts through the chaos like a lifeline, and I follow it without thinking. Down another hallway, past more bodies, through smoke that burns my lungs and makes my eyes water. "Giulia!"
Closer now. So close. I turn a corner and nearly collide with a Marchesi soldier. He grabs my arm, his grip bruising, and I scream.
A gunshot rings out, deafeningly loud in the enclosed space, and the soldier drops. I look up and see one of our men lowering his weapon. "Go!" he shouts at me. "That way! Luca's looking for you!"
I run in the direction he pointed, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
"Giulia!"
"Luca!" I scream back. "Luca, I'm here!"
I turn another corner and see him.
Luca is standing in the middle of the hallway, his weapon raised, his body coiled with lethal tension.
He's covered in blood—his shirt is soaked with it, his face splattered, his hands dark.
For a moment, I can't tell if it's his blood or someone else's, and the terror that thought brings is paralyzing.
Then he sees me, and everything in his face just… breaks.
All the anger I've seen there for weeks, all the resentment and distance, all of it shatters in an instant, replaced by something so raw and desperate it steals my breath away.
"Giulia." My name comes out like something torn from the deepest part of him.
He closes the distance between us and he reaches for me, his gun in one hand as the other goes to my face, my shoulders, my arms—touching me everywhere like he needs to confirm I'm real.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is ragged. "Did he hurt you? The baby—is the baby—"
"We're fine." I choke back a sob. "We're both fine. Luca, we're—"
He pulls me against him so hard it drives the air from my lungs, his arms wrapping around me like he's trying to absorb me into his body. I can feel him shaking like he's coming apart.
"I thought—" He can't finish the sentence. His face is buried in my hair, and I can feel his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. "I thought I was too late. I thought he'd—"
"I'm here." My hands fist in his blood-soaked shirt, holding on like he's the only solid thing here in this place. "I'm here. You found me."
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out of him in a rush. "I'm so fucking sorry. For everything. For being cruel, for pushing you away, for making you think I didn't—that I couldn't—"
"Luca—"
The gunfire starts up again, and Luca turns, pushing me behind him. “It’s not over yet,” he says grimly. “We still have to get out of here.”