Page 50

These weren't just memories. They were lifelines. Anchors to who I was beneath the weapon Prometheus had forged.

"You took everything from me," I snarled, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his jaw.

"My sister. My life. My humanity." Each word punctuated by tightening fingers, each syllable a battle against the invisible chains in my mind.

"You remade me into a fucking weapon, used me till I broke, then tossed me aside like spent brass. "

He clawed at my hands, face darkening as I cut off his air supply. But even now, even with death closing in, his eyes held that same smug certainty that had defined our entire relationship. He didn't believe I could do it. Didn't believe I could kill him.

And he was right. The psychological barriers he'd built into me, the conditioning that had prevented me from turning against him for twenty-six years, still pulled at my muscles like puppet strings. My hands began to shake, grip loosening despite my rage.

He knew it would happen. Had counted on it.

"Still my good boy," he wheezed as my grip faltered. "Still can't bite the hand that feeds you."

The words hit like a slap. Good boy. The praise he'd used during those six nights in Milan, when I was drugged and confused and desperate for approval .

Something broke free inside me, the last chain snapping. I slammed him against the wall again, harder this time, and his head cracked against marble with a sound like a ripe melon splitting. Blood smeared the white surface, bright red against stark white.

"I'm not yours anymore," I growled, hands tightening again around his throat. "I don't belong to you."

The bathroom door burst open. Two of Prometheus security team filled the doorway, weapons already drawn.

My training kicked in instantly. I released Prometheus, diving to the side as bullets chipped marble where my head had been a split second earlier.

"Kill him!" Prometheus ordered, voice hoarse from my hands. "Shoot to kill!"

The first guard advanced, weapon trained on my position. Fatal mistake. I lunged forward from my crouch, driving my shoulder into his knees. As he toppled, I grabbed his wrist, twisting sharply until the bones snapped. The gun fell into my waiting hand.

I fired twice in rapid succession before the second guard could adjust his aim. One round through the throat, one through the eye socket. He dropped instantly.

The first guard was still conscious, scrambling for a backup weapon at his ankle. I put a round through his temple without hesitation.

Prometheus was halfway to the door, using the distraction to escape.

I aimed at his center mass but hesitated for a microsecond—just long enough for him to clear the doorway.

The psychological barriers still pulled at my trigger finger, twenty-six years of conditioning fighting my conscious decision.

I cursed, snatching the second guard's weapon—a Glock 19—and checked the magazine. Full. Better than the three rounds remaining in the first gun. I discarded the nearly empty weapon, keeping only the Glock.

More footsteps pounded down the hallway. I burst out of the bathroom door, running through the kitchen to get into the dining room the back way. I needed to get to Vincent before Prometheus's remaining men did.

The dining room door burst open. Vincent was on his feet, Ana looking terrified behind him. Two more security personnel had entered from another door, weapons trained on Vincent.

"Luka!" Vincent's eyes widened at the blood on my shirt, at the gun in my hand.

I didn't hesitate. I fired three shots in rapid succession. One guard dropped immediately, a bullet through his throat. The second caught a round in the shoulder but remained standing, raising his weapon to return fire.

I fired again, the round catching him center mass. He collapsed across the table, blood spreading across the white tablecloth.

"Down!" I ordered Vincent, placing myself between him and the door where more threats could appear at any moment.

"What did you do?" Ana's voice trembled.

"I'm sorry," I told her, meaning it more than she could ever understand. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"We need to go. Now." I grabbed Vincent's arm, already calculating the fastest exit route.

Vincent's eyes darted to Ana, who had pressed herself against the wall, terror evident in every line of her body. "Ana—"

"No time." Footsteps pounded down the hallway—more of Prometheus's men approaching. "Kitchen exit. It's our only chance."

Vincent nodded, understanding the impossible math of this moment. We couldn't save her. Not yet. Not like this .

"I'll come back for you," I promised her, not sure if she could hear me over the chaos, not sure if it mattered. "I'll come back."

We ran for the kitchen, crashing through swinging doors into stainless steel and fluorescent lighting. Two startled chefs looked up from their stations, immediately raising their hands at the sight of my weapon.

"Back door," I demanded, gesturing with the gun.

One of them pointed shakily toward a service entrance. We pushed through it into an alley that smelled of garbage and cooking grease. The night air hit like a slap, cool against the sweat soaking my shirt.

Footsteps pounded behind us, the sound of more of Prometheus's men in pursuit. I shoved Vincent ahead of me, urging him toward the street where Lo and Diego waited.

"Run!" I shouted as the first bullets pinged off metal dumpsters around us. "Don't stop!"

We sprinted down the alley, my body operating on autopilot. I'd attacked Prometheus. Actually attacked him. Broken through twenty-six years of conditioning to wrap my hands around his throat.

The alley opened onto the main street. Lo spotted us immediately, already gunning the engine of the getaway car. Diego provided cover fire that sent Prometheus' men diving back for protection.

"Move your ass!" Lo screamed as the car screeched toward us.

Vincent reached the car first, diving into the backseat as Diego held the door open. I followed, bullets flying past my head. The door slammed shut behind me as Lo floored the accelerator, tires screaming against asphalt as we fishtailed away from the restaurant.

"What the FUCK happened in there?" Lo swerved through traffic recklessly. "We heard gunshots. Fucking GUNSHOTS at a dinner party? "

"I tried to kill Prometheus." The words felt strange on my tongue. Impossible words. "Almost succeeded."

Lo's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, wide with disbelief. "You actually did it? You broke through the conditioning?"

I looked down at my hands, still trembling with adrenaline. "Not completely. But enough to try."

"He's injured?" Diego asked.

"Head wound. Not fatal. But he'll be out of commission for a while."

Vincent's hand found mine in the backseat, squeezing hard enough to hurt. "You left Ana," he said quietly. Not an accusation. An acknowledgment of the impossible choice I'd made. His thumb traced small circles against my bloody knuckles.

"I couldn't take her," I replied, acid burning up my throat. "Not while bullets flew. Not when she cowered from me like I was the monster and he was her savior. Not when dragging her away would only confirm everything he's programmed her to fear."

Vincent shifted closer, the heat of his thigh against mine sending entirely inappropriate signals through my adrenaline-soaked body. Danger and desire had always tangled inside me, but with Vincent, they became indistinguishable. Both were equally intoxicating, both equally necessary.

"But you will go back for her," Vincent said. Not a question. A certainty.

His eyes darkened as they met mine, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of brown remained. I recognized that look now. It was the same dangerous attraction that had drawn him to me from the beginning. The therapist who should run from violence but instead ran toward it. Toward me .

"Yes," I said, something hardening inside me. And this time, Prometheus won't stop me."

I wasn’t Prometheus's weapon anymore, but I wasn’t the broken boy from Bosnia either. I was something new. Something forged in the fire of my own rage and the cooling touch of Vincent's love.