Fallon
One of the men barks another command in Russian, his patience wearing thin. Maria, still pleading, starts to back away slowly, tears streaming down her face.
“Non posso lasciarti, Fallon!” she wails. I only recognized my name, but the men didn’t care. They drag me toward the door, ignoring her pleas. As they force me outside, I catch a glimpse of Rocco lying on the ground near the entryway, blood pooling beneath him from a gunshot wound to the chest. My stomach churns at the sight, and I feel bile rise in my throat.
“Maria, stay back!” I scream. It’s too late. The men shove me into the back seat of a waiting car, slamming the door shut behind me. I pound on the window, trying to get out, but the child locks are on, trapping me inside. Maria rushes to Rocco, flipping him over and
