Several loud bangs erupted through the air, echoing down into the elevator, where Constantino and I stood after our eight-hour flight from NYC to Italy. It hadn’t even been an hour since we had gotten off the private jet.
“What was that?” I shrieked. When the doors opened, I ran toward Room 431, where Riccardo had told us that Sage had been staying with Poppy. I tripped over my own two feet, my eyes swollen from crying all the way here. “Constantino, it sounds like gunshots!”
Constantino picked me up from the floor, his eyes filled with worry, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he set me back on my feet, grabbed my hand, and rushed down the hallway toward the hotel room.
“Constantino,” I cried, cradling my small bump in one hand, “I can’t lose her.”
“I know, doll,” Constantino mutter
