Blood and Vows.

Chapter 18 - Crossfire

The villa at night was not quiet.

To an outsider, it might have seemed serene—the fountains burbling in manicured courtyards, the cicadas singing from beyond the walls, the faint drift of music from hidden speakers. But Alex, crouched in the dark mouth of a service corridor, knew better. She could feel the tension vibrating through the marble, the way staff moved in clipped lines, the way the guards checked their weapons twice instead of once. This house was awake. And awake houses had teeth.

She hadn’t planned to break cover here, not yet. Her mission was to observe, to learn, to follow the path Samantha Barnes carved into Selma’s domain. Patience was her shield. Every instinct screamed that if she moved too early, she would be burned, exposed, torn apart before she could vanish.

But then Selma smiled.

From the archway of the grand salon Alex saw her—perfect posture, wine glass balanced like a scepter, every word dipped in honey. Selma touched Samantha’s arm, laughed with maternal delight, made a show of hospitality so convincing it could have fooled anyone. Anyone except Sebastian, who stood a pace behind his mother with his hands clasped, his jaw locked in stone. And anyone except Alex, who had studied predators long enough to know when they were purring before the kill.

Samantha didn’t see it. How could she? The banker clung to politeness, her nerves wrapped tight in professional training. She smiled when Selma smiled, nodded when Selma praised her “youthful brilliance.” She was surviving the way civilians always survived: by pretending danger was business.

Alex’s fingers dug into her knees. She didn’t like Samantha, didn’t even know her beyond the files—but she recognized the script. She had seen it too many times: the lamb invited to supper, thinking it was the guest instead of the entrée.

The charade lasted minutes. Long enough for the wine to be poured, long enough for Sebastian to excuse Samantha to “rest before tomorrow’s meeting.” Long enough for Selma to pat her hand as she rose, still smiling like a mother sending her daughter to bed.

Then the smile dropped.

The glass barely touched the table before Selma’s eyes hardened. She turned her head, her voice silk over steel.

“Elma,” she said.

The assassin was already there, materializing from the shadow at the edge of the salon. No footsteps, no sound—only the gleam of metal in her hand.

“Kill her.”

The words cracked the room like a whip.

Sebastian’s shoulders twitched, almost imperceptibly. He turned, his face blank, but his eyes—Alex saw them from her vantage—burned with recognition. He knew the act, knew the trap. He had known all along that his mother would play gracious only to draw sharper blood later.

Elma moved.

Samantha never saw the pistol rise. She was still smoothing her skirt, still murmuring thanks when the assassin’s arm came level, her finger tightening.

Alex didn’t think.

The shot exploded. Samantha shrieked and stumbled as marble behind her shattered. A shard of stone cut across her arm, a red line blooming down her sleeve. She froze, staring at the blood as if it were impossible.

And Alex moved.

Her cover was gone the second she fired back. The muzzle flash lit her hiding place, the report of her weapon ringing like a bell in Selma’s hall. Bullets cracked the air, ricochets sparking from gilt frames. Samantha screamed again, collapsing against the wall.

Elma retreated instantly, vanishing with serpent grace into the next corridor. She had done her part—smoke to draw fire, a wound to bleed fear. Now the house would finish the work.

Boots thundered.

The first wave of guards burst through side doors, rifles raised. Their shouts in Spanish and English tangled into one order: kill the intruder.

Alex pulled Samantha into the corner of a pillar, shielding her with her body as bullets shattered vases and ripped through paintings. She squeezed the trigger again, dropping the first guard with a shot through the throat. Another came. She pivoted, fired twice—his chest folded.

Samantha gasped, clutching her arm. “Who—who are—”

“Quiet!” Alex snapped, not looking back. Names were luxuries. Survival was not.

The firefight consumed the salon. Marble splintered. Chandeliers swung as if caught in a storm. Alex moved with desperate precision, every motion sharpened by the knowledge that she was all Samantha had between life and execution.

She dropped another guard, then another, but more kept coming. Her clip emptied—she reloaded without breath, without thought. Each shot felt heavier, dragging her deeper into the reality she had tried to resist. She was no longer a ghost in the villa. She was here, blazing, undeniable.

Her last bullet from the second magazine took down a man who had almost flanked her. She turned—and clicked on empty.

“Damn it.”

She ducked, ripping Samantha lower as gunfire chewed the wall above their heads. Smoke curled from broken furniture. She scanned frantically—the bodies were too far, rifles out of reach.

Two guards advanced, methodical, rifles fixed. Their boots echoed finality.

Alex clenched her empty gun, preparing to charge anyway. Better to die moving than wait for execution.

But the shots didn’t come from their rifles.

They came from behind them.

Both guards jerked, crimson blooming across their chests. They fell in perfect unison, rifles clattering onto Selma’s polished floor.

And behind them stood Sebastian.

His pistol was raised, his expression unreadable. He had just executed his own men.

For a moment Alex’s brain refused to compute. These had been his guards, his family’s loyal blades—and he had cut them down without pause.

His eyes locked on hers. No words passed, but the truth was there: he had chosen. Not her, not exactly—but against his mother, against the tide, against the weight of loyalty.

“Go,” he said, voice flat as gravel. “Now.”

Alex dragged Samantha up, throwing the banker’s arm over her shoulder. Samantha groaned, half-conscious, blood slicking both of them.

Gunfire cracked again from deeper in the villa. Reinforcements. Alex staggered forward, Samantha in tow. Sebastian moved ahead, firing methodically, covering every step.

They burst into the courtyard. Moonlight gleamed on stone, the fountains now splashing like applause for the madness. A car waited beyond the steps, its headlights a beacon.

Two more guards stood between them and freedom. They raised their rifles—

Sebastian shot them both. Quick, brutal, precise. The men fell, and silence slammed down like a door.

“Move!” he barked.

Alex hauled Samantha the last meters, muscles screaming, lungs aflame. They stumbled into the car, slamming doors shut as Sebastian fired one last volley toward the villa.

Then the engine roared, tires screeching on gravel.

The villa behind them blazed with light and fury, Selma’s voice rising in a scream they couldn’t hear but all three of them felt.

Alex held Samantha against her, blood warm on her hands. Her heart thundered, her mind a storm—but one truth rang clearer than gunfire:

She had chosen.

She could have stayed in the shadows, let Samantha die, kept her cover intact. Instead, she had broken silence, sacrificed invisibility, and revealed herself.

She had saved a stranger, and in doing so, bound herself to this war forever.

Sebastian sat across from her in the dark car, his pistol still in his hand, his eyes unreadable.

For the first time since Jacob’s death, Alex didn’t know if she had won or lost. She only knew there was no going back.