Page 100

Outside, engines roar in the distance, getting closer. Tomasso, hopefully. But the Fiori men have returned to the door as well, their renewed assault making the pallets shift ominously.
I glance around frantically, looking for anything else I can use to fortify our position. My eyes land on Carlo's gun, lying forgotten where it fell during the struggle. I hesitate for a split second. I've never been comfortable with firearms, then lunge for it.
The weight is unfamiliar in my hand as I check the magazine. Three bullets left. Not much, but better than nothing.
I position myself between Stefano and the door, gun raised, prepared to do whatever it takes to keep him safe. To keep our child safe. To give us both a chance for a future I never thought possible.
The barricade shudders as something heavy rams against it from the other side. A voice shouts orders in Italian. It’s too muffled to make out the words, but the intent is clear.
They want blood. Revenge for their fallen bosses.
I click off the safety, steeling myself for what's coming. Three bullets. Make them count.
The chain groans, links straining under the repeated assault. One of the pallets shifts, creating a gap. I see movement beyond, dark shapes, the glint of weapons.
I take aim, finger tensing on the trigger?—
"AVA! STEFANO!" Tomasso's voice cuts through the chaos. "WE'RE HERE!"
The sound of gunfire erupts outside, followed by shouting and the screech of tires. The assault on our barricade abruptly ceases as the Fiori men turn to face the new threat.
Relief makes my hands shake so badly that I nearly drop the gun. I crawl back to Stefano, pressing my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. It's there, weak, thready, but present.
"Did you hear that?" I say, smoothing his hair back with trembling fingers. "Help is here. You just need to hold on a little longer."
The sounds of fighting continue outside, sharp bursts of gunfire, shouts in Italian, the crash of metal on metal. I keep pressure on Stefano's wound with one hand, the gun clutched in the other, watching the barricade for any sign of breakthrough.
Minutes feel like hours, each second marked by Stefano's increasingly labored breathing. The bleeding has slowed, but he's lost so much already. Too much.
"Please," I whisper, not sure who I'm pleading with—Stefano, God, the universe? "Please don't take him from me. Not now. Not like this."
As if in response, the warehouse falls eerily silent. The gunfire stops. The shouting ceases. All I can hear is my own heartbeat thundering in my ears and Stefano's ragged breathing beside me.
Then, cautiously: "Ava? It's Tomasso. We've secured the perimeter. It's safe to come out."
I don't move, don't lower the gun. It sounds like Tomasso, but I can’t be sure. Trust doesn't come easily in this world, and the past few hours have taught me just how quickly situations can turn deadly.
"How do I know it's really you?" I call back, voice steadier than I feel.
A pause, then, "Stefano keeps a photo of you from when you were sixteen in his wallet. Has for years. Says it's to remind him what he's searching for."
The simple truth of it brings fresh tears to my eyes. Of course he does. Obsessive, possessive man. My man.
"He needs medical attention," I say, finally lowering the gun. "Right now. He's lost too much blood."
"We have paramedics. Move the barricade if you can."
With renewed strength born of desperate hope, I pull away the chain and drag the pallets aside. The door swings open to reveal Tomasso, flanked by Stefano's men, all armed, all radiating lethal purpose. Behind them, I glimpse black SUVs and what looks like a mobile medical unit.
Tomasso takes one look at Stefano and barks orders in rapid Italian. Men rush forward with a stretcher, medical equipment at the ready. I try to stay close as they work on him, but Tomasso gently pulls me aside.
"Let them help him," he says, his eyes taking in my blood-soaked clothes, the cut on my cheek, the way I'm cradling my ribs where Carlo's kick landed. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," I say automatically, my eyes never leaving Stefano as the medics insert IVs, apply pressure dressings, check his vitals. "The baby?"
"We'll have you checked too," he promises. "But Stefano first. He's the priority."
I nod, unable to argue with that. My own injuries seem inconsequential compared to the gaping wound in Stefano's side, the unnatural pallor of his skin, the way the medics exchange concerned glances as they work.