Chapter 22

• Clara stared at the gun in Dante’s hand, her breath stuck in her throat. The cold metal shone under the warehouse’s dim lights, catching the shadows and glinting like it was alive—waiting for her to make up her mind. Her heart pounded hard, each beat slamming against her ribs, screaming at her that this was it—this was the moment everything would change. The air felt heavy, thick with damp and rust, pressing down on her like it wanted to crush her.
• The man in the chair groaned, a weak, broken sound that cut through the quiet. His face was a mess—one eye swollen shut, the other barely open, blood dripping slow from his nose onto his torn shirt. His mouth was stuffed with a gag, his hands tied tight behind his back with rough rope that bit into his skin. He looked small, helpless, like a trapped animal waiting for the end.
• Clara swallowed hard, her throat dry as sand. She shouldn’t be here—shouldn’t be standing in this dark, stinking place, facing something like this. She wasn’t a killer—wasn’t built for blood and guns and death. Her hands twitched at her sides, itching to move, but she kept them still, her eyes locked on that gun.