The air inside the safehouse shifted long before anything actually happened.
Camille felt it first.
A quiet wrongness.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just… off.
She stood by the glass wall, staring down at the city lights below, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The building was secure Dante had made that very clear. Guards downstairs. Surveillance active. No blind spots.
And yet her pulse wouldn't settle.
Behind her, Dante was pacing.
Not aimlessly.
Measured. Controlled. Dangerous.
Every step echoed softly against the marble floor, each one carrying tension that hadn't left him since the message.
The photo.
That message.
You run well. But not far enough.
Camille exhaled shakily.
"They're watching," she said quietly.
Dante stopped.
"Yes."
Her throat tightened. "And you're just… waiting?"
"I'm not waiting," he said, voice low. "I'm preparing."
She turned to face him. "For what?"
His gaze locked onto hers.
"For them to make a mistake."
Her heart skipped.
