POV: Carmen
The sound is wrong.
It slices through the night without warning, sharp and final, nothing like the distant echoes we’ve trained ourselves to ignore. It is close. Intimate. A single gunshot that doesn’t belong to celebration, warning, or accident.
It belongs to ending.
For a fraction of a second, my body refuses to process it. There is only vibration—air shuddering, glass trembling faintly, the echo bouncing once against the walls. My ears ring. My hands go numb.
Then instinct detonates.
“Marco,” I breathe, and the word doesn’t come out as sound so much as force.
I am already moving before thought catches up. My feet hit the floor hard, bare skin against cold stone, my heart slamming so violently it feels like it might crack my ribs open. The corridor stretches too long, then collapses as I run it, every sense sharpened to the edge of pain.
Another sound—shouting. Not panicked yet. Controlled. Too controlled.
That’s worse.
I turn the corner and see him.
Marco is on the ground.
For a moment, my mind refuses the image. It tries to rearrange it into something survivable—him kneeling, him ducking, him shouting orders. But the blood is real, dark against his shirt, spreading fast and wrong, blooming from his side as he braces himself against the wall with one shaking hand.
The world narrows.
I drop beside him so hard my knees scream. “Stay with me,” I say, my voice steady in a way that feels unreal. “Look at me.”
His eyes find mine. They’re wide, stunned, more surprised than afraid.
“Carmen,” he says, as if he’s the one grounding me.
My hands are already at the wound, pressing, calculating. The angle tells me everything I don’t want to know. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t warning fire. It was precise.
They knew where to aim.
Gunfire erupts again, closer now, ricocheting off stone, shattering the illusion of calm completely. The estate explodes into motion—guards shouting, boots pounding, someone screaming an order I don’t register.
“Get him inside!” Luca’s voice cuts through the chaos.
“No,” I snap, sharper than the gunshots. “We don’t move him yet.”
Luca skids to a stop beside us, eyes flicking over Marco, then to me. He trusts me instantly. That trust feels like a weight and a blade.
“Perimeter breach,” someone yells. “East side!”
Of course it is. Of course they chose the side we relaxed first.
Marco’s breath hitches. His fingers twitch against my wrist. “Daniel,” he says.
“He’s safe,” I lie without hesitation. I don’t know if it’s true. I will make it true.
I tear fabric with my teeth, press harder, feel blood soak my hands. The smell of iron is overwhelming. My body goes cold-hot, a familiar switch flipping inside me—the one that has always terrified and saved me in equal measure.
This is not fear.
This is focus.
I look up, meeting Luca’s gaze. “Get a vehicle ready. Shielded. Now.”
He doesn’t ask where. He moves.
Another gunshot cracks, closer still. Stone chips spray from the wall above us. I shield Marco with my body without thinking, my back curved over him, daring the world to try again.
“Carmen,” Marco murmurs. His voice is weaker now. “Don’t—”
“Don’t talk,” I order. “Save it.”
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. God, I hate him for that.
The guards push forward, returning fire. The air fills with smoke and echoes, the estate no longer a home but a battleground again. I feel the lie of peace rip completely apart.
This was never over.
I feel it then—not just instinct, but clarity so sharp it almost hurts. This wasn’t a remnant. This wasn’t a rat acting alone.
This was coordination.
The Consortium didn’t die. It adapted.
I press harder against Marco’s wound, murmuring numbers under my breath, timing his breaths with mine. My hands are slick with blood. My mind is terrifyingly calm.
I have crossed so many lines already. There is no room left for hesitation.
A guard stumbles back, clutching his shoulder. Another goes down hard, not moving. Alessandra’s voice cuts through the chaos, shouting coordinates, directing movement with lethal precision.
“Carmen!” Luca shouts from the doorway. “Now!”
I nod once. Two guards lift Marco carefully, following my instructions exactly. I stay close, one hand never leaving him, my other gripping a weapon I don’t remember picking up.
The hallway blurs as we move. The nursery door flashes past in my periphery and my heart stutters violently. I don’t look. I can’t.
The vehicle waits outside, engine roaring, lights off. We load Marco in, Luca climbing in after us, Alessandra slamming the door.
As the car lurches forward, another shot rings out behind us, then another, then a chorus. The estate burns with sound and fury, everything we built under fire again.
Marco groans softly. His head lolls toward me.
“No,” I say fiercely, pressing my forehead to his. “Stay.”
His eyes flutter. “You were right,” he whispers. “It never left.”
“I know,” I answer. My voice breaks despite my control. “And I swear to you, I will end it.”
The vehicle speeds through the night, lights streaking, sirens distant but approaching. Blood pools beneath Marco, warm and terrifyingly real. I keep pressure, keep counting, keep him tethered to me with voice and touch.
Inside, something cold and merciless locks into place.
This is no longer defense.
This is no longer containment.
This is war—earned, personal, unavoidable.
The Consortium made its move.
And now it has my full attention.