ELENA’S POV
Giovanni shoved the narrow kitchen door open with his shoulder.
It stuck halfway, but he forced it, ignoring the way the movement pulled a sharp breath from his throat. The smell of bleach and old grease hit us immediately.
“Through here,” he said.
Dante moved first, one hand on his gun, the other braced behind me like a shield as I hurried forward with Luca clinging to my neck. The hallway beyond the kitchen was barely wide enough for two people. Pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping water on the cracked tile below.
Behind us, boots hit the apartment floor.
Voices.
“Clear the living area!”
“They’re still inside….”
A crash.
Someone kicked through what was left of the front door.
My pulse spiked so hard my vision blurred.
“Move,” Dante urged quietly.
We reached the
