By morning, the shattered glass had been cleared, the blood scrubbed from the floors, and the air inside the safehouse no longer smelled of gunpowder and adrenaline.
But the damage lingered.
Adriana sat in the living room, her legs curled beneath her, wearing one of Marco’s shirts, staring at the scorched doorframe. A part of her kept replaying the break-in in slow motion—the crash, the gunfire, the fear. But underneath the trauma, something darker had rooted itself:
Anger. Cold, clear, and dangerous.
“They knew I’d be alone,” she said when Marco entered the room, his expression drawn and unreadable. “This wasn’t a warning. It was a message.”
Marco didn’t speak at first. He walked over, knelt in front of her, and took her hand. His eyes met hers—sharp, controlled, but she saw the stor
