Chapter 3 Isla

Isla

The gun was already rising when Enrico appeared behind the stranger like death itself.

I didn’t see him move. One moment the man was in my doorway, gun pressed to my chest, finger tightening on the trigger. The next, Enrico’s arm was around his throat, yanking him backward so hard I could hear his spine crack.

The gun clattered to the floor.

The man’s hands shot up, clawing at Enrico’s forearm, but it was like fighting a steel cable. Enrico’s other hand clamped over the stranger’s mouth, silencing his gurgling. Their eyes met, the stranger’s wide with fear, Enrico’s empty.

Then Enrico twisted.

The snap was sickeningly loud in the small dorm room.

The body went limp. Enrico lowered it to the hallway floor with the almost gentle precision of putting a child to bed, not discarding a corpse. It had all happened in maybe five seconds.

Five seconds to end a life.

“Oh my God,” Sarah’s voice trembled. “Oh my God, Isla, what…”

She couldn’t see Enrico, only me frozen with my backpack, the empty doorway, and whatever expression of horror I wore.

“Someone broke in,” I said, my voice sounding distant even to me. “He…he fell. Down the stairs. You need to call campus security.”

A terrible lie. Sarah scrambled for her phone, hands shaking so badly she could barely hold it.

Enrico appeared in the doorway, eyes locking on mine. He said nothing but I know he wanted me to move. Now.

My legs obeyed before my brain caught up. I crossed to the door, stepping carefully around the body, and let Enrico’s hand close around my wrist. His skin was warm. The man he’d just killed was still bleeding onto the industrial carpet.

“Isla!” Sarah shouted after us. “Isla, wait!”

But we were already gone, Enrico pulling me toward the stairs with long, purposeful strides. Behind us, I heard Sarah’s sobbing voice on the phone, and wondered if she’d ever forgive me. If I’d ever see her again.

If I’d live long enough to find out.

The SUV waited where we’d left it, pockmarked with bullet holes. Enrico shoved me into the passenger seat, scanned the street, and slid behind the wheel. The engine roared, and we were moving before I could even click my seatbelt.

My backpack felt heavy in my lap, packed with fragments of my life: a laptop, some clothes, my mother’s necklace pressing cold against my chest. The rest was gone, my roommate, my classes, the paper due Monday that suddenly seemed meaningless.

The city blurred past. Streetlights. Empty stores. A homeless man pushing a shopping cart.

I began crying around Eighth Street.

Not panicked sobs, but smaller, hopeless tears that dripped onto my clenched hands while my whole body shook, struggling to stay silent.

Enrico said nothing. He drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gun on the console. Loaded. Ready.

How many had he killed tonight? Three in the car chase? No…four, counting the one in my hallway. Four people dead because of me. Because I went to Marco’s apartment. Because I existed.

I pressed my fist to my mouth, muffling the sound.

“Breathe, Isla,” Enrico said quietly, almost kindly.

I wanted to scream at him, to ask how he could be so calm after snapping a man’s neck. Instead, I obeyed, gasping in and out.

The tears kept coming.

We drove for what felt like hours, maybe forty minutes. The city gave way to suburbs, then the countryside. Houses became fewer, swallowed by trees and darkness. My phone, tracked and dangerous, lay in pieces on the floor where Enrico made me dismantle it.

I felt lost.

Questions circled like vultures. What had Marco done to deserve this? What had he gotten himself into that ended with guns, chases, and corpses? Was he alive? The blood seemed too much, and Enrico had said “I don’t know” when I asked if Marco was dead. I couldn’t—I couldn’t…

“Your brother’s alive.”

I turned to Enrico. He stared at the road, jaw tight, but his voice made me believe him.

“How do you know?”

“If they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. They took him. Which means they need him alive.”

The words were not comforting.

“Who’s they?” My voice was rough. “Who did this?”

Enrico stayed silent long enough that I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “Later. When we’re somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” I almost laughed, more a sob. “Four dead. A body in my dorm. How is anywhere safe?”

“My place is off the grid. No records, no links to Marco. They won’t find us,” he said, glancing at me. “You need to sleep. You’re in shock.”

“I’m not…” But I was. Numbness spread through my limbs, thoughts skipping like a scratched record. “I watched you kill someone.”

“Yes.”

Just that. Yes. No apology. No justification. Just fact.

“How many?” I whispered. “How many have you killed?”

His jaw clenched, muscle twitching. “Enough.”

I turned away, staring at the blackness rushing by. This man, this stranger, had slung me over his shoulder and flung me into hell. Killed four without hesitation. Promised Marco he’d protect me.

But who would protect me from him?

The question hung unspoken. I knew the answer. Nobody. If Enrico wanted me dead, I’d be dead. I’m only breathing because he allowed it.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

We turned onto a narrow dirt road, trees crowding in. Headlights carved a tunnel through darkness. I glimpsed a fence, a gate, a driveway leading off.

Enrico stopped at a small house, more cabin than home, tucked away in the woods. Solar panels on the roof. Steel shutters over the windows. A place to hide someone. Or to hide screams.

My stomach tightened.

Enrico killed the engine. Silence pressed in. I sat frozen, clutching my backpack like a shield.

“Isla.” He faced me, eyes shadows within shadows. “I know you’re afraid. I know this isn’t what you wanted. But I need you to trust me a little longer.”

“Trust you?” Words spilled out. “I don’t even know who you are, what Marco did, why they’re after me, or…” My voice cracked. “Or if my brother’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” Enrico said again, unwavering.

“How can you be sure?”

His hand moved, I flinched. He froze, something flickering, pain, perhaps understanding, then reached for a phone in the glove compartment.

A burner. He unlocked it, showed me a picture.

Grainy, taken from a distance, but I could see Marco, alive, walking, bruised, zip-tied hands, flanked by two men in suits. Timestamp: three hours ago.

Relief washed over me, and I sobbed, hand over my mouth as new tears streamed down my face.

“Where is he? Where are they keeping him?”

Enrico’s face turned stony. Voice flat, empty: “The Cincinnato family has your brother.”

Air left my lungs.

Cincinnato family. I’d spent four years ignoring Marco’s world. Rumors on campus. Jokes masking fear. Organized crime. Drug dealing. People disappearing.

One of the most powerful families in the city. And they had Marco.

I stared at Enrico, the cold calculation in his eyes, the world tilting.

“What…” My voice barely a whisper. “What did Marco do?”

Enrico reached for the door handle. “He stole from them.”

I didn’t know much, but stealing from the Cincinnatos was doom.

He was doomed. So was I.

And before I could process it, a gunshot rang out.