Chapter 3 - Blood on the Whitewashed Walls
The roar of the assault rifle was muffled by a heavy silencer, sounding like dull metallic claps against the stone walls.
Plaster dust filled the room in a choking white cloud as bullets ripped through my wardrobe and mattress.
I scrambled on hands and knees across the glass-strewn floor, screaming as a splinter tore open my palm.
The shooter stepped into the bedroom, the tactical flashlight mounted on his barrel blinding me instantly.
“Where is the drive, girl?” a rough voice demanded in broken English, layered with a heavy Balkan accent.
Before I could answer, a shadow materialized behind him like smoke from the terrace balcony.
Dante Moretti moved with ruthless, terrifying efficiency.
His hand clamped around the intruder’s wrist, twisting the firearm upward with a sickening crack of bone.
The intruder grunted in agony as Dante drove a titanium combat blade deep into his collarbone.
The man collapsed onto the wrecked bed, gasping for air as crimson soaked the sheets.
A second gunman appeared in the doorway, raising his weapon toward Dante’s back.
“Behind you!” I screamed, throwing a ceramic bedside lamp with everything I had.
The lamp struck the gunman’s shoulder, deflecting his aim just as Dante dropped and swept his leg beneath the man’s stance.
The gunman crashed hard onto the tiles.
Dante pinned him instantly, pressing the suppressed barrel of the captured pistol beneath the man’s chin.
“Who sent you?” Dante asked, his voice steady, quiet, and devoid of any human warmth.
“Was it Vanezis?”
The man spit blood onto Dante’s cuff and whispered a name in Greek.
Dante did not hesitate.
He pulled the trigger once.
The sound was shockingly quiet, barely louder than a closing book, but the finality of it made my stomach heave violently.
I pressed my back against the wall, shaking uncontrollably, staring at the lifeless body on my bedroom floor.
Dante stood up, wiped the back of his hand across his jaw, and looked down at me.
There was no adrenaline in his posture, no sign of panic or fear.
He reached down, grabbed me by the forearm, and hauled me to my feet.
“Get your shoes.”
“We have less than two minutes before the local police arrive, and the police work for the men who just tried to kill you.”
“My roommates—” I choked out, pointing to the trembling hallway.
“They are unharmed, locked in the cellar room.”
“If you stay here, they will execute your roommates to send a message to me.”
“Do you want their blood on your hands too, Emily?”
His words cut through my paralysis like ice water.
I shoved my feet into my canvas sneakers and let him pull me out through the shattered terrace window onto the exterior fire escape.
The night air was freezing against my skin, carrying the sharp tang of gunpowder and sea salt.
We sprinted through the labyrinth of back alleys, descending the cliffside stairs at breakneck speed.
Every shadow seemed to hide another armed shadow.
We broke through an arched stone gateway leading onto the deserted cliffside highway.
The black armored Mercedes waited with its engine idling, headlights switched completely off.
The rear door was held open by a broad-shouldered man wearing a dark tactical jacket.
“Get inside and stay below the window line,” Dante ordered, shoving me into the leather interior.
He climbed in beside me and slammed the reinforced door shut.
“Drive, Nikos,” Dante commanded the driver.
May you like
“Take the southern ridge toward the private marina.”
The Mercedes lunged forward into the darkness, leaving my old life and my stolen identity burning in the ruins behind us.
