Page 11

KLEAH

THE GALA IS EVERYTHING Gabriele described—opulent, secure, filled with the kind of people who measure power in billions and influence in nations rather than neighborhoods. I stand beside him in the blue dress he requested, smiling when appropriate, speaking when addressed, playing the role of devoted wife with more genuine feeling than I could have imagined when this arrangement began.

His hand remains at my waist throughout the evening, a constant reassuring presence. Not possessive exactly, but protective, communicative—a silent reminder that I'm not alone in this unfamiliar world of wealth and carefully veiled power.

"You're doing wonderfully," he murmurs during a brief moment alone, his lips close to my ear to prevent others from overhearing.

A helpless smile touches my lips because I know he truly means it...even when I haven't done anything worth praising. How did I not know I have the sweetest husband in the world? I only have to say 'hello', and it already makes Gabriele act like I've won the Nobel Prize.

"I need to check something with security," Gabriele murmurs after we've circulated for nearly two hours. "Will you be alright for a few minutes?"

"Of course," I assure him, genuinely confident in my ability to manage brief interactions on my own now. "I'll stay in the main room, near the center where visibility is best."

Approval flickers in his eyes—recognition that I've absorbed his security training, that I'm thinking strategically even in this social setting. "Ten minutes at most," he promises, pressing a kiss to my temple before moving away with the efficient grace that characterizes him in all settings.

I maintain my position near the center of the grand ballroom, smiling politely at passing guests, exchanging brief pleasantries when approached but avoiding extended conversation. The venue's security is extensive—Gabriele's team supplementing the already significant measures in place for an event of this caliber—but caution remains our watchword, especially with Valentina's recent escalation.

"Mrs. Bronzetti?" A server approaches, holding a silver tray with a single envelope. "A message for you."

I hesitate, security protocols warring with social convention. Gabriele's instructions were clear—accept nothing, consume nothing that hasn't been verified by security, especially in his absence.

"I'm sorry, but I'll need to verify the sender," I say politely but firmly. "If you could direct them to speak with me directly, I'd be happy to receive their message in person."

The server smiles, but something in the expression doesn't reach his eyes. "The gentleman insisted on privacy. He said to tell you it concerns your brother."

My brother. Viktor. A name few in this room would connect to me, a relationship known only to those directly involved in our situation.

Warning bells sound in my mind, security training intensifying my already heightened awareness. This is wrong. Dangerous. A trap of some kind.

"I'm afraid I must insist on speaking with the sender directly," I say, voice pleasant but unyielding. "Or perhaps you could direct the message to my husband? He'll be returning momentarily."

The server's expression shifts subtly, calculation replacing the practiced smile. "Of course, Mrs. Bronzetti. I apologize for the confusion."

He withdraws, moving through the crowd with slightly too much purpose for a genuine server. I scan the room, looking for Gabriele, for one of his security team positioned strategically throughout the venue.

Toole is nearest, stationed near a side entrance, attention already focused on me as if sensing something amiss. I make eye contact, giving the subtle signal Gabriele taught me to indicate potential threat.

He acknowledges with an equally subtle nod, hand moving to his ear where I know he's communicating with Gabriele and the rest of the team. Help is coming. I just need to maintain position, to avoid isolation or vulnerability until Gabriele returns or security intervenes.

Simple enough in theory.

Then the lights go out.

Not just dimmed for effect, but completely extinguished—the grand ballroom plunged into absolute darkness as power fails throughout the venue. Gasps of surprise ripple through the crowd, followed by nervous laughter, by assurances from staff that emergency generators will activate momentarily.

I remain perfectly still, pulse accelerating but mind clear. This is no accident, no coincidental power failure. This is coordinated, deliberate—Valentina making her move with precision timing. It's also what we expected. And what Gabriele asked me to trust him with.

Because we're done hiding. This time, we're taking matters into our own hands, and we intend to win and take back control of our lives.

Emergency lighting activates within seconds, casting the ballroom in dim, reddish illumination—enough to prevent panic or injury, not enough for clear visibility across distances. Perfect conditions for an extraction.

I begin moving immediately, not toward Toole's position—too obvious, too expected—but toward the kitchen. Gabriele and I had reviewed the venue's floor plan extensively before the event, mapping primary and alternate exit routes, identifying security positions and potential vulnerabilities.

The kitchen connects to service corridors, to staff exits—routes less likely to be targeted in an extraction plan focused on the main public areas. If I can reach it before they locate me in the confusion...

I slip through the crowd with practiced ease, keeping my movements calm but purposeful, just another guest seeking stability in the unexpected situation. No running, no obvious evasion—attention-drawing behaviors that would make me easier to track.

The kitchen entrance is ahead, partially hidden behind an elaborate floral display. I'm almost there when a hand closes around my upper arm, grip firm but not bruising.

"Mrs. Bronzetti," a voice murmurs, cultured and pleasant. "Please don't make a scene. We have snipers positioned throughout the venue, targeting your husband's security team. One signal from me, and they start firing into the crowd."

I turn slightly, finding myself face to face with the false server, his expression now stripped of pretense. Beside him stands a woman I've never seen before but instantly recognize from descriptions—elegant, silver-haired, with eyes cold as arctic ice.

Valentina Biancardi.

"A pleasure to finally meet you, my dear," she says, voice honey over steel. "I've heard so much about Viktor's little half-sister."

The direct confirmation of her identity, of her knowledge of my relationship to Viktor, sends ice through my veins. But I keep my expression composed, chin lifted slightly in the posture Gabriele coached me to adopt when confronted directly.

"Ms. Biancardi," I acknowledge, neither submissive nor challenging. "I presume you arranged this theatrical entrance."

A hint of surprise flickers across her perfect features, quickly masked. "Resourceful and composed," she observes. "I can see why my nephew found you worth protecting. And why someone like Gabriele would be willing to tie himself down with marriage."

The implied intimacy in her tone, the suggestion that she understands Gabriele's feelings, sets my teeth on edge. But I know better than to rise to such obvious bait.

"What do you want?" I ask directly, maintaining eye contact despite the fear coiling in my stomach. "Surely this public venue isn't ideal for the conversation you're seeking."

"Perceptive, too," she notes with what appears to be genuine approval. "You're quite right. We have a more private setting prepared. You'll accompany us there now, quietly and without resistance."

"And if I refuse?"

Her smile is terrible in its gentleness. "Then, as my associate mentioned, we begin eliminating Gabriele's security team. Followed by random guests. Children first, I think. There are several in attendance tonight."

The calm certainty in her voice leaves no doubt she would follow through on this threat without hesitation, without remorse. Lives mean nothing to her compared to getting what she wants.

I consider my options, limited as they are. Screaming would create confusion but not effective help, not quickly enough to prevent snipers from firing. Physical resistance against trained professionals would be futile. Waiting for Gabriele or his team to locate me in this chaos is a gamble with innocent lives as collateral.

"Very well," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the fear coursing through me. "But you should know that Gabriele will find me. And when he does..."

I leave the sentence unfinished, the implication clear enough without specific threats.

Valentina's smile widens slightly, something almost like respect in her cold eyes. "Perhaps he will," she allows. "But by then, our business will be concluded."

The false server's grip tightens slightly on my arm, guiding me toward the kitchen with subtle but irresistible pressure. Valentina follows, her elegant evening gown exchanged somehow for a server's uniform that allows her to blend seamlessly with the venue staff now working to restore order in the power disruption.

We move through the kitchen—staff too busy with the emergency situation to notice anything amiss about two servers escorting a guest—and into the service corridors beyond. The route is clearly planned, clearly rehearsed, with just enough natural variation to avoid obvious patterns that might trigger security algorithms.

My mind races, cataloging details, mapping our path, looking for opportunities or weaknesses I might exploit. Gabriele's training echoes in my thoughts—observe, remember, maintain awareness, conserve energy for when action will be most effective.

We exit through a loading dock, a black SUV waiting with engine running. The transition from venue to vehicle takes less than ten seconds—efficient, professional, expertly timed to minimize exposure.

"Inside," the false server directs, opening the rear door.

I comply, seeing no viable alternative at this moment. Valentina slides in beside me, the false server taking the front passenger seat as the driver pulls away immediately, no words needed to confirm the extraction was successful.

"You're very calm," Valentina observes as we merge into evening traffic, nothing about the vehicle's movements drawing attention. "Most people would be hysterical by now."

"Would hysterics improve my situation?" I ask, genuine curiosity beneath the rhetorical question.

A laugh escapes her—brief, surprised, almost genuine. "No," she acknowledges. "They would not."

"Then what would be the point?"

She studies me with those cold eyes, assessment shifting into something more thoughtful. "You're not what I expected, Kleah Martell. Or should I say, Kleah Bronzetti now?"

"Either is accurate," I respond, maintaining the outward calm Gabriele emphasized was crucial in hostile situations. "Though I'm curious which aspects of me have surprised you."

"Your composure, primarily. Your apparent acceptance of circumstances beyond your control." She gestures elegantly. "Most civilians faced with abduction become emotional, irrational. You've maintained remarkable presence of mind."

"I've had excellent training."

"Gabriele," she says, understanding immediately. "He prepared you for this possibility."

"As much as anyone can be prepared for abduction by their husband's business rival," I acknowledge, deliberately using the most benign description of their relationship, knowing it will irritate her to have the blood vendetta reduced to mere competition.

Her expression tightens slightly, confirming my assessment. "Is that how he described me? A business rival?"

"Among other things," I say vaguely, allowing her to fill in the blanks with whatever worst suspicions she harbors.

The tactic works—her composure slips just slightly, irritation flickering across her perfect features. "I imagine he painted me as quite the villain in his narrative. The grasping aunt, the power-hungry usurper of what rightfully belongs to Viktor's blood."

I say nothing, letting the silence prompt her to continue, to reveal more in her desire to justify herself, to correct what she assumes Gabriele has told me.

"What he fails to mention," she continues after a moment, "is that I built the Biancardi empire alongside my brother. That I was the one who maintained it during the difficult transitions, who expanded it beyond old territorial limitations, who modernized operations while maintaining traditional values."

"And yet Viktor inherited control rather than you," I observe, watching her reaction carefully.

Fury flashes in her eyes, quickly contained but unmistakable. "A disappointing decision by my brother, based on outdated notions of male primogeniture rather than merit or capability. One Viktor was intelligent enough to recognize as flawed, which is why he began including me in strategic decisions toward the end."

The revision of history is breathtaking in its audacity. From everything Gabriele has told me, Viktor kept Valentina at arm's length precisely because he recognized her dangerous ambition, her willingness to sacrifice anything and anyone for power.

"And now that Viktor is gone," I say carefully, "you believe control should revert to you rather than to his blood relatives."

"Half-blood relatives," she corrects immediately. "Products of my brother's infidelity, with no upbringing in our traditions, our values, our methods. What could you possibly know of leading the Biancardi interests? What training have you had? What sacrifices have you made?"

The questions are rhetorical, designed to emphasize my unsuitability rather than genuinely seek information. I answer anyway.

"None," I acknowledge simply. "Which is why I've never claimed any interest in the Biancardi empire or its leadership."

This gives her pause, breaking the rhythm of her self-justification. "You expect me to believe you have no designs on your brother's position? His fortune? His influence?"

"I didn't even know Viktor existed until Gabriele told me," I point out. "I was perfectly content with my life, my craft, my small business. I never sought connection to the Biancardi name or the power it represents."

Skepticism colors her expression. "Everyone wants power, my dear. Some are simply more honest about it than others."

"Not everyone," I counter quietly. "Some want peace. Purpose. Connection. Things power often precludes rather than provides."

She studies me again, something almost like puzzlement in her gaze. "You truly believe that," she says, sounding genuinely surprised. "How... quaint."

I say nothing, recognizing the fundamental gap in worldview that makes true understanding between us impossible. To Valentina, everything is viewed through the lens of power—acquiring it, wielding it, preventing others from taking it. The idea that someone might genuinely not desire it is incomprehensible to her, can only be interpreted as naiveté or deception.

The SUV continues through the city, taking turns seemingly at random but undoubtedly following a carefully planned route to evade tracking or pursuit. I maintain awareness of our direction, noting landmarks when visible, counting approximate distance and travel time.

Eventually, we turn onto a private road, trees close on either side preventing clear sightlines. The property beyond is substantial—not as large as Gabriele's coastal estate but significant, with security features visible even in the growing darkness.

"Welcome to one of my more private residences," Valentina says as the SUV pulls to a stop before a low, modernist structure built into the hillside. "Not as ostentatious as some of my homes, but functional for our purposes."

I'm escorted inside by the false server, Valentina following with unhurried confidence. The interior is minimalist, elegant, with the kind of cultivated simplicity that speaks of extreme wealth rather than actual restraint.

We move through the main living area to a lower level, where the décor shifts from residential to something more utilitarian— concrete floors, steel furnishings, recessed lighting that creates more shadows than illumination.

"You'll wait here," Valentina directs, gesturing to a sparsely furnished room with a single chair positioned in the center. "I have matters to attend to before our final conversation."

The implication is clear—this is my holding cell until she's ready to conclude whatever she has planned. The door closes behind her with a definitive click, followed by the unmistakable sound of a lock engaging.

Alone for the first time since the abduction, I allow myself a moment of genuine fear. The carefully maintained composure, the strategic engagement with Valentina—these were tactics Gabriele taught me to buy time, to gather information, to keep my abductor talking rather than acting.

But now, in this sterile room with its single chair and its locked door, the reality of my situation hits with full force. I've been taken by a woman who has already tried to kill me multiple times, who sees me as an obstacle to her ambitions, who has demonstrated absolutely no moral restraint in pursuing her goals.

My hands tremble slightly as I examine the room, looking for anything useful, anything that might offer options beyond passive waiting. The walls are smooth concrete, the ceiling solid, the floor seamless. The chair is metal, welded rather than bolted, offering no components that could be repurposed as tools or weapons.

A perfect holding cell, designed by someone with experience in containing unwilling guests.

I sink onto the chair, mind racing through possibilities, through the training Gabriele provided for exactly this scenario. Stay calm. Conserve energy. Observe everything. Look for patterns, for routines, for any inconsistency or opportunity.

And most importantly, remember that Gabriele will be looking for me. That he has resources, contacts, methods beyond what most could imagine. That he will not stop, will not rest, until he finds me.

Unless Valentina's snipers succeeded in their mission at the gala. Unless Gabriele is injured, or worse.

The thought sends ice through my veins, fear sharper than any concern for my own safety. I push it away forcefully, refusing to indulge possibilities that would only paralyze me, only prevent effective action.

Focus on what I know, what I can verify, what I can affect.

I'm in a secured room in a private residence. Valentina plans some "final conversation" that almost certainly ends with my death, however she might phrase it. Escape through conventional means appears unlikely given the security features I observed upon arrival.

What remains?

I close my eyes, centering myself in the quiet of the room, in the reality of my own breath, my own heartbeat. Gabriele's training emphasized physical solutions—observation, tactical assessment, strategic response.

But there are other resources, other approaches beyond the physical and tactical.

I used to feel close to God. Used to talk to Him all the time and trusted Him completely. But when my foster father did what he did...

I blamed Him for letting it happen. But I never realized I felt that way until now. Never realized I was trying to punish Him, childishly so, with my silence. And yet...He's never abandoned me. And I know this to be true because in this sterile room with its impenetrable walls—-

It's in this place that I feel His presence the most.

I'm sorry, God. I'm so sorry. Thank You for never giving up on me. And thank You for being here.

It's the simplest prayer. But because ever word comes from the heart, I know it's also the kind that He hears and answers, and already I can feel Him working inside of me. A quieting of fear, a clarifying of purpose. It's His peace that surpasses all understanding making me see everything with new eyes.

Ah.

That's when I see it. A ventilation grate. It's the escape route we see being used in every action movie there is. And now there's only one way to find out if the same method proves effective in reality.

I move the chair beneath it, climbing carefully to peer through the slats. The duct beyond is dark but clear, running horizontally for several feet before turning upward. It's too small for a person to fit through. But when I'm standing this close, it's enough for me to hear voices—distant but distinguishable, echoing through the metal passageway.

Valentina, speaking to someone about security arrangements, about timetables, about "wrapping this up quickly before Bronzetti gets too close."

So Gabriele is alive, is pursuing. Relief floods through me, sharpening my focus, strengthening my resolve. I need to stay alive long enough for him to find me, need to create any advantage possible in the meantime.

I continue listening, gathering what information I can about the layout, the personnel, the schedule Valentina has established. The ventilation system connects multiple rooms, creating not just an audio channel but potentially a navigation guide to understanding the structure beyond my immediate confinement.

Eventually, the voices fade as Valentina and her associates move to different areas of the residence. I remain on the chair, thinking through what I've learned, what options it might create.

The most significant revelation is timing—Valentina plans to "conclude our business" within the hour, before moving to a secondary location in anticipation of Gabriele's eventual tracking of this facility. I have less time than I thought, but more information to work with.

I examine the ventilation grate more carefully, noting the standard screws securing it to the wall. No tools available to remove them, but perhaps...

The key Gabriele gave me—the antique from his grandmother's house that "unlocks something worth opening." I wear it always on its platinum chain, tucked beneath my clothing, a tangible reminder of the connection we've built, the trust we've established.

The bow of the key is ornate, with protrusions that might, with careful application, serve to loosen the screws securing the grate. Not as effective as a proper screwdriver, but potentially workable given sufficient patience and precision.

I remove the key from around my neck, testing its edge against the first screw. The fit isn't perfect, but with careful pressure and the right angle, it begins to turn—slowly, grudgingly, but definitely moving.

The work is painstaking, each screw requiring minutes of careful manipulation, of tested angles and applied pressure. But gradually, one by one, they loosen, until finally the grate comes free in my hands.

The opening beyond is dark, confined, but large enough for me to enter if necessary—a last resort if Valentina returns before I can develop a better plan. I replace the grate loosely, returning to the chair to think through next steps now that this potential escape route exists.

The ventilation system might allow movement to adjacent rooms, but without knowing the layout, without understanding where guards might be positioned or exits located, blind navigation would be dangerous at best, fatal at worst.

I need more information, more understanding of the facility and its vulnerabilities.

Returning to the chair beneath the vent, I listen carefully for any sounds that might provide additional insight. Distant conversation, footsteps moving between rooms, electronic beeping that might indicate security systems or communication devices.

Gradually, a picture forms—the facility is not large, with perhaps five or six rooms on this level, minimal personnel present other than Valentina and her immediate associates. Security appears concentrated on the perimeter rather than internal movement, suggesting confidence in the holding cell's effectiveness at containing prisoners.

Overconfidence, potentially. A vulnerability I might exploit.

I continue listening, gathering what information I can, when a new sound captures my attention—faint but distinctive, a rhythmic tapping that doesn't match any natural building noise or human movement.

Morse code. Someone is sending a message through the structure's infrastructure, using the pipes or ventilation system as a conduit.

G-A-B-R-I-E-L-E

My heart leaps. He's here, somehow. Close enough to communicate, to coordinate, to offer hope beyond my own resources.

The message continues:

C-O-M-I-N-G - F-I-V-E - M-I-N - F-I-R-E - D-I-S-T-R-A-C-T-I-O-N

Five minutes. Fire as distraction. Gabriele coming for me, as I knew he would, as I trusted he would regardless of obstacles or opposition.

I tap back, using the key against the metal ventilation duct:

U-N-D-E-R-S-T-O-O-D - R-E-A-D-Y

The exchange complete, I return to the floor, replacing the chair in its original position, concealing any evidence of my exploration or preparation. Valentina must find me exactly as she left me—compliant, contained, unaware of the approaching rescue.

I sit, hands folded in my lap, expression composed but with the appropriate level of fear and uncertainty expected of a prisoner awaiting their fate. Inside, however, I'm calculating, planning, preparing for the moment when distraction becomes opportunity.

True to the message, approximately five minutes later, alarms begin blaring throughout the facility—harsh, insistent, impossible to ignore. I hear shouts, running footsteps, confused commands as Valentina's people respond to whatever diversionary tactic Gabriele has implemented.

Fire, he'd indicated. And indeed, the distinct smell of smoke begins filtering through the ventilation system, not overwhelming but definitely present, definitely concerning to those responsible for the facility and its security.

The lock on my door clicks, the panel swinging open to reveal the false server from the gala, expression tight with controlled urgency.

"We're moving you," he says tersely. "Now."

I rise, maintaining the appearance of compliant fear while inwardly calculating angles, distances, potential weaknesses in his approach. He gestures impatiently for me to precede him into the hallway, unwilling to turn his back on a prisoner even in emergency circumstances.

Professional. Cautious. But also distracted by the alarms, by the growing presence of smoke, by the chaos Gabriele has orchestrated specifically to create such distraction.

The hallway beyond is utilitarian, concrete like my holding cell, with numbered doors suggesting similar rooms along its length. The false server directs me toward a stairwell at the far end, his attention divided between my movement and the commotion happening elsewhere in the facility.

We're halfway to the stairs when the overhead sprinklers activate, drenching us both in seconds. He curses, using one hand to wipe water from his eyes while the other maintains its grip on what I now see is a concealed weapon.

The momentary distraction is enough. I drop to the floor suddenly, using the slick surface created by the sprinklers to slide between his legs, throwing him off-balance as he tries to compensate for my unexpected movement.

He staggers, weapon coming up but aim compromised by the water, by the surprise, by the training that emphasizes capture over killing for valuable prisoners. I roll to the side as he fires, the bullet striking concrete rather than flesh.

Before he can readjust, I'm on my feet, driving forward with the full force of my body, shoulder connecting with his midsection in the precise manner Gabriele taught me for opponents larger and stronger than myself.

He goes down hard, head cracking against the concrete floor with enough force to daze if not disable. I don't wait to find out which, already moving toward the stairwell, toward potential freedom, toward the rescue Gabriele promised was coming.

The stairwell is dark, emergency lighting providing minimal illumination as I ascend, moving as quietly as possible despite the continued blaring of alarms and rushing of water from sprinklers. At the top, a heavy door stands closed but not locked—an oversight in the chaos, a gift I accept without questioning.

Beyond lies what appears to be the main level of the residence—sleek, modern architecture now transformed by emergency lighting and water damage from the sprinkler system. The smoke is thicker here, suggesting the fire Gabriele mentioned as distraction is primarily focused on this level rather than the containment area below.

I move carefully through rooms that show signs of hasty abandonment—monitors still active, doors left open, personal items scattered as if security personnel had deployed rapidly in response to the emergency. No immediate sign of Valentina or higher-level associates, suggesting they've either evacuated or relocated to a more secure area of the property.

Navigation is challenging in the semi-darkness, with smoke creating additional visual obstruction, but I continue forward, seeking exits, seeking Gabriele, seeking any advantage over the forces arrayed against me.

A hallway leads toward what appears to be the main entrance, now visible through periodic flashes of emergency lighting. I move toward it, hope rising with each step closer to potential freedom.

Then a figure steps into my path, elegant even in crisis, expression cold despite the chaos surrounding us.

Valentina .

I consider my options. Calculate escape routes against the likelihood of success like Gabriele taught me to. The other woman holds no visible weapon, but her confidence suggests one is present, suggests she believes herself fully in control despite the evident breach of her security.

"It's over, Valentina." I need to keep her from doing something. Or get her to talk. "Gabriele is here. Your security is compromised. Whatever you planned for me ends now."

A smile touches her lips, cold and certain. "It seems you're too stupid to understand what's really going on. Gabriele might well be here, yes. But you're still with me. And that means I have leverage."

I slowly shake my head. "You're the one who doesn't understand. You've already lost Valentina."

And despite the flash of outrage in her eyes, my words are no exaggeration.

Because the man I trusted to save me is standing right behind her.

GAbrIELE

I've been tracking her through the smoke-filled corridors, moving silently as Toole's distraction fire does its work.

Valentina, as expected, was unable to resist the temptation to make another attempt to eliminate my wife. And now she's about to pay the price for daring to harm the woman I love.

The sprinklers have created chaos, disorienting Valentina's security team, providing the perfect cover for my advance. I watched with pride as Kleah escaped her escort using the exact moves I'd taught her—precise, efficient, beautiful in their execution.

Now I stand behind Valentina Biancardi, gun pressed against the base of her skull, watching my wife's face transform with relief.

"It's over, Valentina," I say, voice steady despite the rage coursing through me. "Tell your people to stand down."

Her body stiffens, but she doesn't turn. Smart—a woman who's survived this long knows better than to make sudden movements with a gun against her head.

"Gabriele," she says, voice admirably controlled. "How predictable that you'd come for her personally. Always so hands-on with your... attachments."

"Radio," I say, ignoring her attempt at provocation. "Now. Tell them to stand down."

She reaches slowly for the radio at her belt. "This is Biancardi," she says into it. "Stand down. Repeat, stand down."

Static crackles, then confirmation from multiple security positions.

"Kleah, come to me," I say, never taking my eyes off Valentina. "Stay behind me."

Kleah moves carefully, positioning herself safely out of potential harm's way. She's pale but composed, displaying the quiet strength that first drew me to her beyond obligation or duty.

We stand in tense silence, water still dripping from the ceiling, smoke thinning around us.

"One last chance, Valentina," I say. "Walk away. Permanently. Disappear from our lives, and I allow you—-"

Her movement is sudden, practiced, almost too fast to track—body twisting, hand reaching inside her jacket, emerging with a small pistol.

Almost too fast.

I fire once. The bullet enters her forehead just above the right eye, a clean kill that drops her instantly, weapon unfired.

Silence follows, the only sound the dripping water and distant shouts of confused security personnel.

I'm already stepping toward Kleah, shielding her from the sight with my body, tucking her against me as I assess for additional threats.

My wife buries her face against my chest, arms around my waist, body trembling slightly with delayed reaction, with the emotional aftermath of captivity and escape.

I hold her tightly, one hand cradling her head, keeping her close.

"It's over," I tell her, voice rough with emotion I no longer attempt to suppress. "Truly over. She can't reach you now, can't threaten what's ours."

Hazel eyes made blurry with tears meet mine, and no words are needed.

I love you.

I love you.

And when she touches my cheek with a trembling hand, I hear her just as fine.

Take me home, Gabriele.

I sweep her up in my arms even as my heart continues to pound against my chest.

I could've lost her.

So easily.

A thousand things could've gone wrong.

But instead everything went right.

Thank You.

It's my first time to pray. But I know it won't be the last.