The silver canister tumbled, a malevolent star against a canvas of fire, its trajectory a death sentence arcing directly toward the shattered cellar door. Toward Alessandro, who stood rooted, a final, futile bulwark against the inevitable.
Isabella’s scream was a silent, torn thing in her throat, stolen by the vacuum of dread.
It was Marco who moved, not with the desperate heroism of a shield, but with the cold, dispassionate efficiency of a machine. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, his arm snapped up. The shot was not loud, but precise, a sharp crack that was swallowed by the fire’s roar.
He didn’t shoot Gabe. He shot the canister.
The bullet struck the metal cylinder not to detonate it, but to deflect it. It was an impossible shot, a gamble of physics and nerves of st
