Page 64 of Intrigue

With no hesitation, I step forward again.

Chapter 21

Selene

The shot rings out. But instead of pain, I feel a body slam into mine. Sandro. His weight knocks me sideways as crimson blooms across his shirt. Without hesitation, I snatch his fallen gun and fire. One shot. My father staggers, confusion etched into his features.

Then another. So close to where Giovanni shot him and blood bursts across his chest.

He collapses, knees hitting the floor first. There’s no satisfaction, just cold relief as his body slumps, lifeless.

“Sandro!” I drop to my knees, gripping his arm. His face is pale beneath the soot. Flames lick thewalls around us, hungry and unforgiving. Pieces of the ceiling crash down, exploding into sparks. The heat presses in like suffocation.

“We need to get you out of here.” Sandro’s voice comes out rough, pained. “The structure won’t hold. I can stand.”

I loop his arm over my shoulders, ignoring his grunt of protest. “Shut up and lean on me.”

With effort, he leans heavily on me, and we stagger toward the only window that hasn’t been taken up by the fire. Smoke burns my lungs, blurring my vision. Debris rains down as we stumble through burning hallways. The building groans, timbers splintering overhead. Somewhere in the chaos, I hear faint voices either from the Moretti men trapped or fleeing, I can’t tell. Cassian could be among them, but he was too damn hurt to have not been trapped under the rubble.

“Leave me,” Sandro mutters. “Save yourself.”

“Not happening.” I tighten my grip, half-dragging him toward the exit. “You don’t get to play hero then check out.”

Fresh air hits like a punch when we finally break free. We collapse on wet grass as the building caves in behind us, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky. Sandro’s breathing comes shallow, his shirt soaked through.

Sirens wail distantly, barely audible over the roar of fire behind us. Sandro collapses onto the pavement, groaning. I drop beside him, heart hammering, hands trembling as I press down on his wound.

“Stay awake,” I snap at him, terrified by how weak his pulse feels under my fingertips.

He coughs and laughs bitterly. “After everything, you’re still giving orders.”

“Shut up.” My voice cracks, betraying me. Tears blur my vision, mixing with sweat and soot. “Just shut up and keep breathing.”

His hand covers mine, warm despite everything. “You’re worth it, Selene. I’d take that bullet again. Every time.”

My throat tightens, anger and gratitude tangled together. “You idiot. Don’t ever do that again.”

His fingers find my face, leaving smears of ash and blood. Then a small, tired smile pulls at his lips. “Can’t promise.”

“Come on, I need to take you somewhere and treat that,” I say, hauling him upright again. We need shelter, a place no one will think to look, especially the police. We cannot go to the hospital for now so as not to gather suspicion.”

“There’s a house nearby,” Sandro says, struggling to sit up. “My old apartment.”

Each step is agony, for him physically, for me watching him suffer. The streets blur past as I focus on keeping us both upright. Three blocks feel like thirty before we reach a nondescript building.

“Third floor,” he rasps. The elevator’s out of order, because of course it is.

By the time we stumble into his apartment, Sandro can barely stand. The emptiness hits me immediately as I scan through to see the apartment is barely furnished, so hollow, like a place waiting indefinitely for life to happen.

“Home sweet home,” he murmurs weakly, eyes moving around. “Always wanted to bring you here…but I never managed to live here myself.”

“Thank God you didn’t,” I tease gently, masking the tightness in my throat. “Your taste is terrible.”

A soft, painful laugh escapes him, quickly turning into a grimace. “Still kicking me when I’m down, huh? So typically you.”

I guide him carefully into the bathroom, peeling away his blood-soaked shirt. My breath catches as there’s so much blood, but at least the bullet passed clean through. Lucky, if you could call this luck.

“First aid kit’s under the sink,” he mutters, leaning heavily against the cold tiles.