I jolt awake, my body sensing danger before my mind can place it. The room is shrouded in darkness, like a coffin, and the only thing I can see is the glowing digital clock on the nightstand, telling me it’s 3:17 AM.
My heart thuds behind my ribs, and I don’t know why. After years of seeking safety amid danger, I now know when to recognize it. Something woke me. Something beyond my usual nightmares.
I sit up, and that’s when I hear it—voices, muffled but urgent, rising from the grounds below.
My bare feet meet the plush carpet as I pad to the window. The curtains part under my trembling fingers. Outside, flashlight beams cut through the darkness, sweeping across the manicured lawns. Men move with purpose, their dark forms distinguishable only by their shadows under the moonlight. Something has disturbed the carefully maintained order of the Bianchi estate.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, straining to catch a glimpse. Marco’s words from last week echo in my mind—how I’m in danger. If we’re being targeted, if someone’s come for Chiara, for me…
My heart begins to pound.
The voices outside grow more insistent. I catch fragments blown up by the wind.
“—perimeter breach—”
“—east wing—”
“—find them before—”
My stomach twists. East wing. My wing.
A new sound pulls my attention from the window—a soft scraping outside my bedroom door, like fingernails against wood. Not the heavy footfalls of Marco or his guards, but something furtive, desperate.
I freeze, suddenly aware of how alone I am. Marco’s gun safe is locked in his study. The security panel that would summon help is not yet installed in my room. Marco said it would be done by the end of this week. I’m trapped in my room with nothing to defend myself with, and something waits on the other side of that door.
The scraping comes again, followed by a muted thump. Then silence.
My mouth goes dry. I could pretend I didn’t hear it. Could burrow back under the covers and wait for Marco’s men to find whoever is out there.
But I’ve spent too many years hiding. Too many nights in foster homes where closing your eyes to danger only ensured it found you anyway.
Besides, maybe there are guards outside, within the house. I could always scream. They’ll hear me from the hallway, but I might not be heard if the intruder finds me in my room.
I grab the heavy crystal paperweight from my nightstand and feel its solid weight in my palm. It’s heavy enough to be deadly if I wield it right.
The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I approach the door. My free hand reaches for the knob, fingers curling around the cool brass. I hold my breath, counting down in my head.
Three…
Two…
One…
I yank the door open, paperweight raised high, only to stumble backward in shock at the hooded figure that nearly collapses into my room.
“Wait!” the figure gasps, hands coming up defensively.
I know that voice. Would know it anywhere, even whispered in fear.
“Chiara?” My voice cracks on my twin’s name.
“Lock the door,” she hisses, already moving to do it herself, but she finds none.
I stand frozen as she slides the deadbolt into place. Chiara—here, in Marco’s mansion.
Chiara, who vanished after handing me her fate like a death sentence. Chiara, who swore we’d be killed if I didn’t go through with it.
“What are you doing here?” I finally manage, the paperweight still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. “Do you have any idea how dangerous—”
“I know exactly how dangerous,” she cuts me off, her voice low and fierce. “Why do you think I’m dressed like this?” She gestures to her black clothes, the hood, the gloves—a thief’s uniform, not a sister’s visiting attire.
Something cold and heavy settles in my stomach. “You broke in? Past Marco’s security?”
She doesn’t deny it, just grabs my hands. Hers are ice-cold and trembling slightly. “I had to see you. Had to tell you what I found.”
“Found? Chiara, what—”
“About our parents.” Her eyes burn with an intensity that makes me step back. “About what really happened to them.”
The room seems to tilt around me. Our parents—the vague memories in the few photos we managed to keep through the foster system. Dead in a car accident when we were just babies. Ancient history. Sealed records. A closed door.
“What are you talking about?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
Chiara glances nervously at the window. “I tracked down someone who knew them from before they died.” Her fingers dig into my arms. “Aria, I need you to confirm something for me. We were told they died in a car—”
A shout from the hallway cuts her off. Heavy footsteps pound the corridor outside. There are multiple sets, and they’re moving fast.
“They’re coming.” Chiara’s face drains of color. “I thought I had more time—”
“Hide,” I whisper urgently, tugging her toward the walk-in closet, but it’s already too late.
The door bursts open, wood splintering around the lock as three of Marco’s security guards force their way in, guns drawn. Their faces are hard masks of efficiency, eyes coldly assessing as they take in the scene: me in my silk pajamas, and a stranger dressed in black standing too close.
“Step away from Mrs. Bianchi,” the lead guard orders, his weapon trained on Chiara’s head.
I move instinctively between them and my sister. “Wait—”
A rough hand grabs Chiara from behind, yanking her backward. Another guard twists her arms behind her, securing them with plastic zip ties while she struggles. The third keeps his gun leveled, his finger hovering near the trigger.
“Stop!” I cry out, lunging forward, but I am stopped by the first guard’s outstretched arm. “You’re hurting her!”
“Check her for weapons,” the lead guard instructs, and I watch in horror as they roughly pat down my sister, who doesn’t fight them, who tries to keep herself from being injured.
“Please,” I beg, switching tactics. “She’s not armed. She’s not dangerous. Just let me talk to her—”
“Breach confirmed in the east wing,” one guard says into his radio. “One intruder apprehended in the primary bedroom. Awaiting instructions.”
The radio crackles. A voice I recognize as Marco’s security chief responds: “Hold position. Boss is en route.”
My blood turns to ice. Marco is coming. Marco, who tolerates no threats to what belongs to him.
Chiara seems to shrink in her captor’s grip, but her chin lifts defiantly. “I’m sorry,” she mouths to me from beneath her hood, and I’m not sure if she’s apologizing for coming here or for what’s about to happen.
I’m still trying to form a response when the atmosphere in the room changes, becoming charged and heavy, like the air before lightning strikes. The guards straighten imperceptibly, their faces becoming even more expressionless.
Marco fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the frame. His black hair is disheveled.
His gaze sweeps the room in one clinical assessment, lingering first on me, checking for injuries, then settling on Chiara with a coldness that makes me shiver despite the room’s warmth. His eyes are one of glacial fury, and then I see the gun in his hand, pointed forward, directly at her.
He doesn’t know it’s her. He can’t see through that hood.
“Marco—” I try to explain, to get him to call his men off my sister, but he doesn’t hear me.
“What,” he says, each word precise and deadly quiet, “the fuck is going on here?”
No one answers immediately. The guards look at each other, then at me, and then back at Marco.
“Perimeter breach, sir,” the lead guard finally offers. “We found this intruder in your wife’s bedroom.”
Marco’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the dark stubble. He steps fully into the room, and even though he doesn’t raise his voice, the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.
“And how,” he asks, “did an intruder get past sixteen armed men, three guard dogs, and a state-of-the-art security system to end up in my wife’s bedroom?”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
Marco doesn’t wait for an answer. He raises the gun, the barrel locking on the center of Chiara’s forehead.
“Stop!” I cry out, launching myself forward. “Marco, please!”
His free hand shoots out, catching my wrist before I can reach them. His grip is iron, but careful not to bruise. Even in his rage, he’s mindful of marks on what he considers his property.
“Aria,” he says, my name a warning on his lips. “Step back. This doesn’t concern you.”
But it does. It concerns me more than anything ever has.
“Someone tried to hurt you. And now, I’ll have their last breath as a welcome gift,” he hisses, releasing my grip so fast, I nearly stumble back.
If he shoots her, he loses me. And maybe, just maybe, I want him to know that.
Without thinking, I run and stand in front of his gun, a barrier between my sister and her downfall.
“You’ll have to shoot through me first.”
