Her body had surrendered to exhaustion, lulled into a bruised, uneasy slumber by the storm of blows she had endured. But her rest shattered abruptly at the echo of gunfire. Sharp, merciless cracks pierced the silence, dragging her back into the waking nightmare.
Elena's eyes flew open. There he was—the brute again, looming above her like a shadow that refused to fade. Panic twisted his features, the arrogance gone. His hands fumbled as he unlocked the shackles binding her wrists, only to seize her with feral strength, dragging her upright. The cold muzzle of his pistol pressed against her temple, and she felt his ragged breath against her ear.
"Drop your weapon…" His voice broke with terror, his chest heaving. "Drop it—or I'll splatter her brains across the floor right here, right now!"
The words choked out of him in gasps, as though each syllable was a mile dragged across broken glass.
Only then did Elena truly see. Her vision, once blurred, cleared into horror. The abandoned hall had transformed into a charnel house. Pools of crimson soaked the cracked concrete. Bodies lay strewn in grotesque silence—men she had heard speaking, laughing, only hours ago. Now they were nothing but husks. She saw one in particular: the henchman who had once tried to restrain his master, now collapsed with a bullet hole drilled neatly between his brows. His glassy eyes stared upward at nothing.
Her head turned, her gaze dragged by instinct to the figure standing at the center of the slaughter.
A tall man.
He stood with the stillness of a predator that had already claimed its kill. Blood marked his cheek in a delicate streak, which he brushed away with the slow, deliberate motion of his thumb. Dark hair fell in loose strands over a pair of eyes—green, sharp, merciless—that seemed to pierce through the air, through her, as if stripping her soul bare.
"Oh, Carlos…" His voice was low, cold, almost mocking, each word laced with disdainful amusement. "I didn't know you enjoyed playing such filthy games."
Carlos—the brute, her captor—tightened his grip, jerking Elena against him as if her slight body could shield him from the inevitable. His voice cracked, trembling under the weight of his own desperation.
"One more step," he shouted, his pistol jamming harder against her temple, "and I swear to God I'll pull the trigger. I'll blow her head off!"
Luca Vitale—she knew it must be him—paused. He did not flinch, did not lower his weapon. His emerald gaze burned, calculating, unshaken. But his stance… his hesitation… Elena saw it, subtle as the flicker of a flame in the wind.
For one breathless instant, doubt gnawed at her. Was he faltering? Would he retreat?
And then instinct took her.
With a sharp twist, Elena dropped low, her body folding, chains rattling as she wrenched herself downward. In the same motion, she spun away, forcing Carlos's arm wide, the barrel scraping past her temple.
She knew she was risking death. Knew a bullet could tear through her skull before she could even scream.
But she had chosen to trust him—the stranger with green eyes standing amidst the carnage.
Luca.
The stench of iron and gunpowder hung thick in the air. Smoke curled lazily toward the rafters, veiling the carnage at his feet. Luca Vitale moved like a shadow through the haze, his pistol steady, his heartbeat calm despite the bodies that lay cooling around him.
And then he saw her.
A girl, held fast in the arms of that coward Carlos—her wrists bruised, her skin ghostly pale against the dark chains that had bound her. Her hair spilled in long brown waves over her shoulders, glinting blue-black under the dim light. But it was her eyes that arrested him.
Blue. Not the soft blue of spring skies, but fierce, glacial, alive—eyes that shone with defiance even as a gun pressed into her temple.
She was beautiful, yes. But not the fragile, trembling kind of beauty he was accustomed to seeing at banquets and clubs. This was something sharper, something that refused to break.
Carlos's voice cracked through the distance, shrill with terror.
"One step closer, Vitale, and I'll paint the floor with her blood—I swear it!"
Luca's finger tightened fractionally on the trigger. His gaze never wavered from the man before him, yet part of his mind—damn it—was fixed on her.
Who was this woman? Why did the sight of her ignite a spark of recognition, as though fate had pulled a cruel joke on him?
She moved suddenly.
In a blur, she dropped low, twisting with unexpected precision. The barrel scraped past her temple as she forced Carlos's hand wide. For a heartbeat, Luca almost cursed—her recklessness could have gotten her killed. But then, in that flash of motion, he saw it clearly: she wasn't waiting to be saved.
She was trusting him.
And for the first time in years, Luca Vitale felt something unfamiliar coil in his chest—something dangerously close to admiration.
Two shots split the air.
Carlos's bullet tore into Elena's shoulder, a burst of searing pain ripping through her body. Almost at the same instant, Luca's shot struck Carlos square in the chest, sending him crashing onto the cold concrete. He fell like a puppet with its strings cut, groaning, writhing—but not yet gone.
Elena staggered, clutching her shoulder, blood spilling warm and thick between her fingers. Her breath came in broken gasps, but she forced herself to stay upright, her eyes burning with something fiercer than pain.
Luca approached Carlos with the calm stride of a predator. His pistol leveled downward, eyes gleaming with lethal resolve.
"Well, well," he drawled, lips curling into something between amusement and disgust. "Still alive, you cockroach. Wearing a vest, are you? Clever. Don't worry—I'll send you to the other side quickly."
His finger tightened on the trigger—when a trembling but determined hand pressed against the barrel, angling it skyward.
Luca turned, astonished, then furious, as Elena met his gaze. Her face was pale, her lips trembling from pain, but her eyes—those piercing blue eyes—burned with stubborn fire.
"Don't tell me," he sneered, a cruel laugh escaping him, "you're one of those women who can't stomach killing? How utterly nauseating."
Even through her agony, Elena's laugh came sharp and biting, laced with irony.
"Are you joking? Why on earth would I let a bastard like him live? He hurt me. I want to finish him myself. Give me the gun."
Luca hesitated, curiosity flickering through his emerald gaze. Slowly, with an arched brow, he handed her the weapon and folded his arms, intrigued by the spectacle.
Elena gripped the pistol with shaking hands. She raised it, pressed the trigger—click. Nothing. Her frown deepened, her frustration breaking through the haze of pain.
"It's not firing. Why won't it shoot?"
Luca's lips curved into a shadow of a smile as he stepped closer, his voice low, patient, almost instructional.
"Here. Pull this back. Then aim—and fire."
From the shadows, Enzo's voice rang with disbelief, half-whispered, half-choked with laughter.
"What the hell am I watching? Did we just walk into a beginner's shooting class by mistake?"
But then it happened.
With startling speed, Elena adjusted her aim—not at Carlos's chest, but lower. Much lower. Her finger squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. Thrice.
The gun thundered in her hands, each shot punctuated by Carlos's shriek, animalistic and unholy. His screams tore through the abandoned warehouse as bullets shredded his manhood, reducing him to a writhing mass of agony.
Luca and Enzo froze. For a heartbeat, both men swallowed hard, their own hands shifting instinctively, protectively, toward their belts as if shielding themselves from her wrath.
Elena exhaled, her face twisted into a grin that was equal parts triumph and cruelty. She tossed the pistol back to Luca with casual finality.
"Here. Take it. That bastard tried to force himself on me earlier. This is the perfect way to end him. He'll bleed out slowly—from the place that mattered most to him."
Her smile widened, victory flashing across her bloodstained lips. But even as she spoke, her strength faltered. The edges of her vision blurred, her knees buckled, and the world spun violently. The blood loss was claiming her.
She collapsed.
Luca caught her swiftly, arms steady, his expression unreadable as he gathered her against him. His voice, low and certain, brushed against her fading consciousness.
"Let's take you home, Signora Vitale."
Enzo's footsteps approached, his tone brisk. "It's done. Some neighbors reported the shots, but I've tied up the loose ends. The police won't touch this. The case will close—no questions asked."
Luca's mouth curved into a dangerous smirk, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he carried her toward the waiting night.
"Good. Well done, Enzo."