Chapter 20 – Dario
I lie on one end of a makeshift cot in the church basement, my back against the cold frame. Viviana’s curled up on the other side, boots off, her breath steady as she rests.
Musty stone walls close us in, lit by a single bulb buzzing overhead. Dust coats the old pews and cracked tiles, and the quiet feels thick, unnatural.
Thunder rumbles above, faint through the stained-glass windows. Dew beads on the cracked panes, and I sense the storm brewing, heavy and close.
A low thunk cuts through from outside, sharp and wrong. My eyes snap open—I know that sound, and it’s a gut punch of trouble.
There’s no time to yell. The explosion hits—fire blasts down the stairwell, swallowing it whole, and smoke pours in fast, choking the room.
I lunge, shoving Viviana behind a stone column. Debris crashes down—wood splintering, plaster shattering—and something sharp tears through my side.
Pain sears, hot and immediate. Blood spills fast, soaking my shirt, and my vision blurs, edges fading to black.
Viviana screams—not fear, but fury, a sound that cuts through the roar. Her hands grab my arm, dragging me hard through the haze.
“They found us,” I say, voice weak, legs buckling under me. Smoke chokes my throat, and the heat presses in, relentless.
“Then we make them regret it,” she says, sharp and fierce. She rips fabric from her jacket, binds it tight around my side, her fingers quick despite the burn on her shoulder.
I stumble, leaning into her, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage. She slams her shoulder into a back exit, the rusted door groaning open. Smoke follows us out, curling thick, and I hear a gunshot crack from the alley.
My knees hit the ground, gravel biting through my jeans. Viviana hauls me up, her grip iron, pulling me behind a stack of crates.
Another shot rings out, pinging off the stone wall. I catch my breath, vision swimming, and see shadows moving—Caldera’s crew closing in.
“Fuck,” I rasp, clutching my side, blood slick on my fingers. “They’re fast.”
“Yeah,” she says, crouching beside me, eyes scanning the dark. “But we’re faster.”
I was supposed to protect her. Now she’s pulling me from the fire, her hands steady where mine shake.
Gunfire rips through the yard like a church hymn twisted to hell.
Stone cracks. Glass shatters. The steps outside the church bleed spent shells. My side's on fire, warm and wet beneath the fabric of my coat. I grip the edge of the stone balustrade, drag myself halfway behind the statue of a wingless angel, and try to focus past the ringing in my head.
Viviana moves like she was born in the smoke.
She’s crouched low, sight locked. One shot drops the first man by the chapel doors. A second drops behind him before he even hits the ground. Precision. No wasted motion.
I don’t call out. She doesn’t need direction.
She knows what she’s doing.
Marco steps through the haze like a man arriving late to his own funeral. He’s wearing a black suit, ash on the cuffs, a pistol in his hand—but it dangles loose, not raised. His eyes lock on mine. Calm. Detached. That smug half-grin I used to think meant experience. Now it just reads like rot.
“Caldera has no room for ghosts,” he says, voice low enough to cut through the echo of retreating gunshots.
He’s talking to me.
And he doesn’t look at Viviana.
He doesn’t see her.
And that’s his first mistake.
She steps forward.
Gun drawn. Barrel steady.
Marco chuckles. Doesn’t even raise his weapon. “She won’t do it,” he says. “She’s not you.”
Viviana’s voice cuts the smoke in two. “No,” she says. “I’m worse.”
She pulls the trigger.
The first bullet takes him in the heart. He staggers, blinking like it surprised him, like maybe for a second he thought this was still a game he controlled. His knees buckle, and he drops, landing hard on the steps with a thud.
But she doesn’t stop.
She walks forward—measured, unstoppable—and fires again. This one, straight between the eyes. No hesitation.
Marco's body twitches once. Then stills.
That’s it.
That’s all he gets.
The yard goes quiet. Real quiet. Not the kind that creeps in, but the kind that drops like a curtain.
Viviana turns back to me.
Her face isn’t blank. It isn’t cold.
It’s clear.
And that’s what scares me most.
She kneels beside me, slides an arm behind my back, her other hand cupping my face as my vision flickers at the edges. Blood loss crawls fast. She doesn’t panic.
“We’re not done,” she says. Her voice is calm, not comfort. It’s command. “Not until every last one of them feels what I felt.”
I stare at her.
I’ve seen rage before. Seen revenge. This isn’t either.
It’s will. Pure and sharpened. A force that’s chosen itself and no longer needs permission.
And I realize something—
I’m not her shield anymore.
I’m her match.