Page 92 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Ninety-One

Isabella

B OOM.

A second blast follows, and plaster dust falls from the ceiling.

I duck under the table, keeping Hale in sight, disbelief cracking his mask.

A third explosion rolls in, a low concussion pressing through the walls like a heavy breath.

Picture frames rattle against the walls, Hale’s ridiculous portrait now hanging askew.

The floor doesn’t buck this time, but it hums with the aftershock.

For a heartbeat there’s only ringing silence. Then alarms wail to life, loud and ugly.

Shouting erupts in the halls. Boots hammer the floor. Radios squawk. Gunfire rips across the grounds in hard, relentless bursts, stuttering into a near-constant rattle.

The explosions didn’t come from the house. The sound rolled like thunder through the trees.

It has to be the gates. Charges big enough to bite through reinforced steel and concrete.

Luca .

Hale yanks open a drawer in the ornate desk and pulls a gun. Matte black. Heavy. The slide snaps, the safety clicks off. His hand is steady, his eyes colder than I’ve ever seen them.

He sweeps the room, searching for me. And I know exactly what he plans. Use me as leverage to make Luca surrender.

Not happening.

I spring from under the table and bolt.

A shot cracks behind me. A bullet whistles past my ear. Plaster bursts from the wall, peppering my skin with grit.

Fuck, he’s shooting at me.

I hurl myself through the doorway and sprint into the corridor, shoes skidding on the polished floor.

Gunfire barks outside in short, brutal bursts. Men shout on the grounds. The estate has turned into a battlefield.

“Halt,” someone yells behind me. Another voice swears. Hale’s footsteps hammer closer.

Another bullet snaps past me and shatters a vase on a stand, porcelain exploding across the floor.

I flinch, but there’s no time for fear.

I keep running, cutting right at the next intersection. In a split-second decision, I dive behind a heavy velvet curtain. Fabric breathes against my face. I hold my breath until my lungs burn.

Hale’s stride thunders past, close enough for me to feel the rush of air. He doesn’t slow.

I listen to his footsteps fade, count to three, and break cover.

The weapons hallway stretches ahead, glass cases flashing in the alarm lights.

The floor trembles with distant impacts. Somewhere, a door slams hard enough to echo.

A pedestal stands to my left, bearing a bronze bust, smug and heavy. I grab it with both hands and hurl it into the glass case of bows.

The crash is deafening. Glass explodes, shards raining across the floor.

I reach through. Ouch . A clean bite opens on my forearm. I ignore it.

My fingers close around a short recurve, compact and quick, already strung for display. The grip settles into my palm like it knows me. I test the draw. Right, this will do.

A quiver hangs on hooks below, feathers in neat fletches. I sling the strap over my shoulder, the arrows thudding against my back. The world narrows to the bow in my hand and the thunder of my pulse.

No more running. I hunt him now.

I move down the corridor. A guard barrels around a corner and nearly plows into me. His eyes go wide when he sees the weapon. I dart past him while he hesitates and vanish into the wash of dust and alarm lights.

Hale mustn’t get away.

If he disappears into some hole, he’ll crawl back out when he chooses, and this starts all over. I won’t let him haunt Luca again. No, I’m taking him down.

I skid to the corner and freeze. Ahead, there’s movement.

A leg, then the cut of Hale’s shoulder slips through a gap behind a cupboard he must have dragged from the wall. The heel of his shoe flashes once and is gone. He doesn’t look back.

I edge closer along the wall, bow drawn and ready to fire, aware it could be a trap, that he might pop out and shoot.

The cupboard leaves a narrow mouth of darkness. Cool air slips out, stale and musty. Low bulbs throw a thin ladder of light down a sloping passage. Footsteps tap away.

I see Hale halfway down the secret passage, a dark cutout against the glow. His stride is brisk, his head angled as if listening for danger.

He’s bolting.

Pathetic coward.

I hesitate for one heartbeat. Not from fear, but for precision.

As quietly as possible, I step into the mouth of the passage and plant my feet. Left foot forward. Hips square.

If Hale turns around and aims his gun at me, I’m a goner. I have to get to him first .

I draw an arrow and nock it. The string kisses my lips. My back tightens. The noise of the house fades until all I can hear is the beat of my own blood.

I sight on him. Center mass would drop him. A thigh would stop him from running. Either way, he is not leaving this house.

My fingers loosen.

The string snaps.

The arrow flies.