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Milo doesn’t see it coming—I launch myself forward. Ignoring the screaming protest from my wounded shoulder, I collide with him. He catches me effortlessly when I smash my forehead into Milo’s nose with a sickening crunch that makes me see black for a split second.
“Dammit!” he curses, stumbling back, his hands flying up to his face as he lets me go.
In one motion, I rip the gun from his slackened grip as he picks it up. My fingers are slick with my blood, but I hold on tight, the weight of the weapon both foreign and familiar in my hand. I swing the barrel towards Leone, who freezes, his calculating eyes widening in surprise.
“Don’t touch it,” I snarl, picking up the second gun Leone is about to reach for that rests on the table. Finding my other target with unnerving calmness as I train it on Milo, who has since recovered enough to realize the severity of his mistake.
“Fallon, this is madness,” Leone says, his voice smooth as silk yet edged with caution. He slowly raises his hands in surrender.
“Madness?” I echo, a cold, bitter laugh escaping my lips. “No, this is desperation.” I point at Milo’s gun, wanting him to slide it over. He does, and I pick it up.
“Think about what you’re doing,” Milo warns. His voice is strained as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood.
“I’ve thought about nothing else,” I spit at them, and my eyes flicker between the two men. “You threatened my family, my life. Now don’t fucking move, or you’ve played your last hand, Leone,” I yell at him, just as he takes a step towards me.
“Brave words for someone who just lost the game,” Leone taunts, attempting to regain control of the situation.
“Looks like I’m holding all the cards now,” I counter, my voice steady even as my arm trembles under the strain of holding the gun on him.
The basement, once filled with shuffling cards and chips clinking, now echoes with my heart pounding. The dim light casts shadows across the two men’s faces, turning them into grotesque representations of the threats they posed. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, ready to react to whatever move they make next.
“Let him go, and maybe I’ll consider letting you walk out of here alive,” I tell Leone, although I know I am as good as dead now. I won’t be walking out of here even if I kill them. His guards out there will kill me, but perhaps I can save my sister and father. Or at least give them a fighting chance.
“Oh, Fallon. Quite the situation you’ve found yourself in.”
“Shut up,” I snap, my finger twitching on the trigger. My legs shake, the third gun tucked under my arm falling to the floor when I move. But I dare not move to pick it, knowing if I do, they’ll pounce on me.
Leone’s eyes dart to the gun at my feet; a sly smile crawls onto his face. “Fine,” Leone finally concedes, his voice a low rumble of defeat. “Let him go, Milo.”
Milo hesitates, his calculating eyes never leaving me. But eventually, he steps aside, unlocking the handcuffs my father wears and allowing my blindfolded father to shuffle away from the line of fire.
Keeping the guns aimed squarely at the two men, I wait. This isn’t over, not by a long shot. But for now, I’ve regained some semblance of control, and I’d be damned if I let it slip through my fingers again. Sweat beads on my forehead, mingling with the blood and grime, and my arm wavers for a moment under the weight of the gun. But I fight through the pain, shooting up from my wounded shoulder, steadying my aim at Leone and Milo.
“Consider your next move carefully,” I grind out through clenched teeth, my voice low as my body moves hesitantly for a chair. I motion for Milo to move next to Leone and he does. Using my good arm, I grab the chair dragging it by the wall.
Leone’s sardonic chuckle fills the air, a sound that scrapes along my nerves like sandpaper. “You’re in no position to be making threats, cara mia. How long do you think you can hold that gun pointed at me? I bet it feels heavy with your shoulder injured like that.”
“You’d be surprised,” I retort.
Milo shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting between me and Leone. I can almost see the calculations running behind his gaze, looking for an angle, a weakness, calculating his chances of getting to me before I shoot him or Leone.
Seeing the money my father stole, I kick the bag toward my father. “Dad, get up,” I order.
“You think he’ll get away with stealing twice?” Leone scoffs.
“Shut it, or I’ll put a bullet in you just to enjoy the silence,” I spit back, my finger itching against the cold metal trigger.
My mind races, cataloging exits, calculating the odds of getting out of this alive, and I’m not liking my chances.
“Smart girl, planning your escape? It won’t work,” Leone says, reading the flicker of thoughts across my face.
“Maybe not,” I acknowledge, allowing myself a brief moment to consider the possibility. “But I don’t have to outrun you, just out shoot you.” I turn my gaze to my father, who hasn’t moved like he is paralyzed by fear. “Dad, get up.”
“Fallon—” Milo begins, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture of the gun.
“Quiet.” My voice is icy calm, but inside, my thoughts whirl like a tornado. Is there a chance I could negotiate my way out? No, these men understand only force, the kind that leaves bodies cold and bleeding.
“Let’s make a deal,” Leone suggests, his tone silkier than before, but I know the viper that lays coiled beneath the charm.
