[Valentina’s POV]
The letter sits on the table in front of me, Mama’s name written in handwriting that looks steadier than my hands feel. Inside are words I never thought I'd have to write—goodbye disguised as love, apologies wrapped in lies about how this isn't her fault.
How do you explain to your mother that you're about to fake your death? That she'll grieve an empty casket while you're alive somewhere pretending to be Sarah Brennan, ranch wife, person who definitely doesn't have elaborate death-faking schemes in her recent history?
You don't. You just write "I love you" fifty different ways and hope it's enough.
I sign my name at the bottom—Valentina Moretti, one last time—and fold the letter carefully. The crease lines up perfectly, which feels important somehow. Like if I can get this one small thing right, maybe the universe will cut me some slack on the whole "your lover escaping an exploding warehouse" situation.
Marco stands in the doorway, expression carefully neutral. He's been doing that a lot lately—the neutral face that suggests he's either accepted his role in our insanity or has simply run out of reactions to catalog.
"Only if everything fails," I say, holding the letter out. My voice comes out steadier than expected. "If Dante comes out that back door like he's supposed to, you burn this. Understood?"
"Understood." He takes it without looking at it, tucking it inside his jacket with practiced efficiency. "He'll make it out, Valentina. The boss doesn't fail."
"There's a first time for everything. That's literally how statistics work."
"Not today." His certainty would be comforting if I believed in certainty anymore. But I've learned that the universe has a sense of humor, and it's the kind that involves Murphy's Law and explosives.
I leave him standing there and head toward the servants' quarters, moving through hallways I've learned too well. The mansion is quiet at this hour—everyone either sleeping or pretending they don't know something catastrophic is happening. Plausible deniability is a survival skill in this world.
Clara's room is at the end of the hall, small and plain. I knock softly. She opens the door looking confused and half-asleep, her eyes widening when she sees me.
"Valentina? What's wrong? Is someone—"
"Listen to me carefully." I press an envelope into her hands—thick with bills I pulled from Dante's safe earlier. "This is enough for a bus ticket and a few months somewhere far away. I need you to leave tonight. Pack what you can carry, get to the station, and don't look back."
Her face goes pale. "What? Why? I don't understand—"
"Trust me." The words feel inadequate, which they are. "Just trust me, Clara. Take the money, leave the city, start over somewhere safe. Don't ask questions, don't tell anyone where you're going. Just go."
"But—" Her eyes fill with tears. "Is this because of what happened? With those men? I thought—"
"This isn't about that." I squeeze her hands, feeling her fingers tremble. "This is about getting out before things get worse. And they're going to get worse. So please, please just trust me and go."
She stares at the envelope, then at me, processing. "Are you leaving too?"
The question lands harder than expected. Am I leaving? Technically yes. Permanently no. It's complicated in ways I can't explain without sounding completely insane.
"Something like that," I say finally. "But you don't need to worry about me. You just need to get yourself somewhere safe. Promise me you'll go."
She nods slowly, tears spilling over. "I promise. And thank you. For everything. For stopping those men, for this—" She holds up the envelope. "For caring when no one else did."
My throat tightens. "Take care of yourself, Clara."
I leave before she can ask more questions I can't answer. Behind me, I hear her door close softly, followed by the sounds of hurried movement. Good. At least one person is getting out of this alive.
Marco's waiting by the car when I emerge—a nondescript sedan with false plates, the kind that blends into traffic and doesn't attract attention. Which is the opposite of every car I've ridden in since entering this world, where "subtle" means "only slightly bulletproof."
"Ready?" he asks.
"Absolutely not. Let's go anyway."
The drive takes twelve minutes through streets that look normal, populated by people whose biggest concern is probably traffic or what to make for dinner. Not "will my fake death be convincing enough to stop a mob war." Different priorities.
Marco parks three blocks from the warehouse, positioning the car with a clear sightline to the back exit. The exit where Dante is supposed to emerge. The exit that better not be blocked by debris or fire or any of the thousand things that could go catastrophically wrong.
I stare at the building—old brick, industrial windows, the kind of place that either manufactures legitimate products or serves as the setting for elaborate criminal schemes. Today it's the latter.
"How long?" My voice comes out quieter than intended.
"Meeting was scheduled for eight. Should be starting now." Marco checks his watch, then his phone, then the mirrors. He's been cycling through this pattern since we parked—watch, phone, mirrors, repeat. Nervous energy with nowhere to go.
I try not to count the minutes. Fail spectacularly. Each second stretches like pulled taffy, time becoming elastic when you're waiting for the man you love to either walk out of an explosion or become part of one.
Two minutes. Five. Seven. Marco's grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles going white. His phone buzzes—a text he reads without commenting. Probably updates from inside. Probably nothing good based on his expression.
Then I hear it. Muffled pops that could be fireworks if I didn't know better. Gunfire. Multiple weapons, overlapping, the sound of Lorenzo's ambush springing exactly as Dante predicted.
My hand finds the door handle, gripping hard enough that my fingers go numb. Every instinct screams to run toward that building, to do something, anything except sit here watching and waiting like some helpless damsel in a particularly violent fairy tale.
"Don't," Marco says without looking at me. "You promised to wait."
"He should be coming out by now." My voice is tight, strained. "The charges should be—"
"Thirty seconds after the first shot. He knows the timing."
But thirty seconds has passed. I know it has. I've counted every one like rosary beads, like prayers, like bargaining chips I'm offering to a universe that doesn't take trade requests.
The back door should open any second. Dante should appear any second. He should be running toward us, alive and whole and ready to drive away from this disaster we've orchestrated.
Any second now.
The door stays closed.
More gunfire erupts—louder, closer, the sound of chaos reaching critical mass. Marco's phone buzzes again. He glances at it, jaw tightening in a way that makes my stomach drop.
"Marco—"
"Wait."
"Marco, what's happening—"
"Just wait."
But waiting is impossible when every nerve in my body is screaming that something's wrong. When the back door should have opened by now. When Dante should have emerged by now. When thirty seconds has stretched into a minute, then longer, and the door stays closed while gunfire continues inside.
Any second now, I tell myself. Any second he'll appear. He promised he'd make it out. He promised this would work.
The door stays closed.
Any second now.
Any second.
Please.