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He catches my gaze after dropping another guard, checking that I'm okay. I give him a small nod. His eyes soften for just a moment before hardening again as we press forward.

Then here, in this moment, I understand with sudden clarity why he tried to keep me from this mission. Not because he doubts my strength, but because he knows the cost of this life.

We reach a heavy steel door marked with Russian lettering that I assume indicates the isolation wing. Marco's electronic device makes short work of the electronic lock, and we slip inside.

The cells line both sides of a narrow corridor, most empty, their doors standing open. But at the far end, a guard sits outside a closed door, his attention focused on a small television.

Dante signals to Marco, who takes position at the opposite angle. They'll converge from both sides, trap him in a pincer movement.

But before they can execute their plan, the guard looks up, sees us, and reaches for his radio.

I don't think. Don't hesitate.

My hand finds the gun at my side, raising it in one fluid motion. The suppressed weapon coughs once. The guard slumps forward, a neat hole where his right eye had been.

Dante looks at me with something between surprise and pride before quickly moving to the fallen guard to check for keys.

"Thank my father's paranoia," I say, my voice strangely calm despite the trembling of my hand. "He made sure I could shoot to kill."

Dante cocks a brow and blows a heavy breath. "And that you did, princess."

The unprotected cell door opens with a metallic groan, revealing darkness beyond. The smell hits me first—blood, urine, and something worse.

"Antonio?" I whisper, moving into the darkness. "Antonio, it's Francesca. I'm here."

A shuffling sound comes from the far corner. As my eyes adjust, I make out a figure huddled on a thin mattress, chains connecting wrists to a bolted ring in the wall.

"Frannie?" The voice is cracked, disbelieving. "No... trap... they said..."

I rush forward, falling to my knees beside my brother. The sight of him tears a gasp from my throat. His face is barely recognizable beneath the bruising, one eye swollen completely shut, lips cracked and bleeding. His expensive suit hangs in tatters, revealing burns and cuts across his torso.

"I'm here," I assure him, hands hovering uselessly over his injuries. "I'm real. We're getting you out."

Dante appears beside me, bolt cutters in hand. He makes quick work of the chains, freeing Antonio's wrists.

"Can you walk?" Dante asks him directly.

Antonio's good eye fixes on Dante with visible effort. "You... shouldn't be here. The youngest... Ravelli... fucking asshole."

"Nico," Dante confirms. "We know."

Antonio tries to stand, his legs buckling beneath him. Dante catches him effortlessly, supporting his weight.

"Marco, lead the way," Dante commands. "We're moving. Now."

Marco nods, taking point as we begin our retreat. I stay close to Dante, who half-carries Antonio through the dungeon corridors. We're making good progress when the first alarm sounds—a wailing siren that echoes through the stone passages.

"Shit," Dante says grimly, increasing his pace. "Move! Now!"

We break into a run, retracing our steps through the labyrinth maze. Behind us, shouting erupts, followed by the distinctive sound of boots on concrete. Many boots.

"Almost there," Marco encourages as we reach the tunnel entrance. "Two hundred meters to extraction point."

We push forward, the narrow passage forcing us into single file. Dante transfers Antonio to Marco, taking rear position to cover our retreat.

The first gunshots come as we near the tunnel's exit. Bullets ricochet off concrete walls, showering us with fragments.

"Go!" Dante shouts, returning fire. "Get them out!"