The car jerked to a halt so suddenly that Aria's shoulder slammed into the door. The screech of tires echoed through the narrow stone street, bouncing off walls that seemed to lean closer with every breath.
Ahead of them, a barricade waited. Armored SUVs lined the road like an iron curtain, engines rumbling low and men spilling out in perfect synchronization. Their headlights glared into the black car's windshield, bleaching Aria's face pale, leaving her blinking against the light.
This wasn't an ambush.
This was theater.
Her heart raced in uneven beats. She felt it in her throat, her ears, her ribs.
The driver muttered a curse, his knuckles bone-white against the steering wheel. Beside her, Lorenzo shifted forward, pistol already in his hand. His face was shadowed but his jaw was locked tight, as if he was calculating exactly how much blood it would cost to break through.
Aria found her voice, though it cracked like glass.
