Chapter 7 Isla

Three hours.

The words echoed in my skull as I stood frozen on the stairs, watching Enrico's face shut down into something cold and mechanical. He was already moving, pulling weapons from hidden compartments, loading magazines with the kind of efficiency that spoke of muscle memory and too much practice.

"Pack light," he said without looking at me. "Only what you can run with."

I stumbled up the remaining stairs, my legs operating on autopilot while my brain tried to process what execution meant. Would they shoot Marco? Torture him first? Would he be scared, or had he always known it would end this way?

My hands shook as I shoved things into my backpack, little clothes, the charger, nothing that really mattered because how could anything matter when my brother had three hours left to live?

When I came back down, Enrico had changed into all black, tactical pants, long-sleeved shirt, boots that looked made for silence. He had a vest laid out on the table, multiple guns, knives I tried not to look at too closely. The weapons of someone preparing for war.

He looked up as I descended, and I watched something flicker across his face. Calculation. Doubt.

"Come here."

I crossed to him, my backpack clutched like a shield. He studied me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and I could see him weighing options, running probabilities.

"I need you to make a choice." His voice was level, controlled. "The panic room can sustain one person for up to a week. Water, food, air filtration. Reinforced walls that could survive a missile strike. I can lock you in there, go get Marco, and come back for you when it's done."

My stomach dropped. "Or?"

"Or you come with me." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness. "Into a situation where people will be actively trying to kill us. Where I can't guarantee your safety or that we'll both make it out alive."

The choice should have been obvious. Stay safe. Wait. Trust him to handle it.

But the thought of being locked in that tiny room, alone in the dark, not knowing if Enrico was alive or dead, if Marco had been saved or executed, if I'd ever see daylight again.

"I'm coming with you."

"Isla…”

"I'm. Coming. With. You." I stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. "Lock me in that room and I'll lose my mind. I need to… need to be there. For Marco. And for…”I stopped, swallowed. "I'm coming with you.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite approval, but acknowledgment. "You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No hesitation. No questions. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

The words came out automatically, and I watched his jaw tighten at the phrase. He turned away abruptly, grabbing a smaller vest from somewhere and holding it up.

"Put this on."

The vest was heavy, the weight of it settling on my shoulders like responsibility. Enrico adjusted the straps with deft fingers, pulling them snug, his knuckles brushing against my ribs. Each touch was professional, impersonal, but I felt every single one like a brand.

"It'll stop most calibers," he said, his hands lingering at my sides. "But not all. You stay behind me, you stay in cover, and if I tell you to run…”

"I won't leave you.”

His hands tightened, fingers pressing into my waist hard enough to bruise. "If I tell you to run, you run. That's not a request, Isla. That's the price of bringing you."

I met his eyes, saw the steel there, and nodded. "Okay."

"Say it."

"If you tell me to run, I'll run."

"Good girl." The words sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. He stepped back, examining his handiwork, then handed me something small and black. A phone. "Emergency contacts are programmed in. You call them if I go down."

"You won't go down."

"Optimism will get you killed, cara." But there was something almost fond in his voice as he said it.

He led me to the basement, through the door we'd used earlier. The tunnel stretched ahead of us, dark and damp-smelling. Enrico clicked on a flashlight, and we moved in silence, our footsteps echoing off concrete walls.

My mind raced with questions I didn't ask. How did he know where Marco was being held? Who had called him? How were we supposed to infiltrate what was surely a heavily guarded location and extract a prisoner in under three hours?

The tunnel ended at a ladder leading up. Enrico climbed first, pushed open a hatch concealed by brush and debris, then reached down to haul me up after him.

We emerged in a small clearing about half a mile from the cabin. A nondescript sedan sat waiting, covered in a camouflage tarp that Enrico yanked off with practiced efficiency.

"Get in."

I slid into the passenger seat as he started the engine. The car purred to life, and we were moving, headlights cutting through the darkness of the forest road.

For the first few minutes, neither of us spoke. I watched the trees blur past, my hands twisted together in my lap. The vest felt strange against my chest, a constant reminder of what we were driving toward.

"Where are they keeping him?" I finally asked.

"Warehouse district. East side." Enrico's hands were relaxed on the wheel, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "Cincinnato's preferred location for... negotiations."

The pause before that last word told me everything. This wasn't where they negotiated. This was where they killed people.

"How do you know they'll be there?"

"Because I know how they operate." His jaw tightened. "Your brother wasn't just working for them, Isla. He was one of their accountants. Had access to all their financial records, their money-laundering operations, their offshore accounts."

The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.

"And he stole from them."

"Not exactly." Enrico glanced at me, then back at the road. "He copied everything. Every transaction, every bribe, every dirty deal. He was planning to sell it to their enemies."

My breath caught. "That's…that's suicide."

"Yes."

"Why would he…” But I already knew. Money. It always came back to money. Marco in his expensive suits, his penthouse, his new life that I'd been too naive to question.

"How much?" The words tasted bitter.

"Twenty million. That was the asking price." Enrico's voice was flat. "He was going to disappear after the sale. New identity, new country. He had it all planned."

"Without telling me." It wasn't a question.

Enrico said nothing, which was answer enough.

I turned to look out the window, blinking back the sting in my eyes. My brother, my stupid, greedy, reckless brother had been planning to abandon me. To fake his death or just vanish, leaving me to wonder and grieve and never know the truth.

And I was still going to save him.

"You think I'm an idiot," I said quietly.

"No." Enrico's hand left the steering wheel, finding mine in my lap. His fingers laced through mine, warm and solid. "I think you're loyal. And love makes people do stupid things."

"Is that experience talking?"

His hand tightened on mine. "Yes."

We drove in silence after that, his hand still holding mine across the center console. It should have felt wrong, this intimacy in the midst of chaos. But instead, it felt like an anchor. Like as long as he was touching me, I wouldn't fly apart completely.

The city rose around us gradually, warehouses and industrial buildings, streets empty at this hour. Enrico's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, an absent gesture that made my pulse skip.

"When we get there," he said, his voice low, "you stay in the car until I clear the perimeter. Then I'll signal you."

"What's the signal?"

"Two flashes from my light. You see anything else, you drive away and call the first number on that phone."

"Enrico…”

"Promise me, Isla." He pulled the car into an alley, killed the engine, and turned to face me fully. "Promise me you'll leave if this goes wrong."

The shadows cut across his face, making him look older, harder. But his eyes, his eyes held something that looked almost like fear.

"I promise," I whispered.

He leaned across the console, and for one heart-stopping moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, his forehead pressed against mine, his hand cupping the back of my neck.

"Stay alive," he murmured. "Whatever happens, you stay alive."

Then he was gone, slipping out of the car and into the darkness like smoke.

I watched him disappear around the corner, my heart hammering against the heavy vest. The burner phone felt like lead in my pocket. I counted seconds in my head, each one stretching into eternity.

Two minutes passed. Three.

Then I saw it, two quick flashes of light from the building ahead.

I opened the car door, stepped out onto the cracked asphalt, and froze.

Because standing between me and the warehouse, a gun pointed directly at my head, was my brother Marco.

And he was smiling.