Ryan's Point of View
I tasted blood. Not the fresh kind, but the old, coppery kind that reminded you you were still alive, barely.
The hallway outside Isabella's room rang with gunfire and the kind of screams that etched themselves into your bones. My lungs burned from the sprint, my hands shaking as I steadied myself against the doorframe. She was alive. I'd seen her—seen the fire return to her eyes even as the devil tried to swallow her whole.
And now… now I had to fight to keep her that way.
The moment I stepped out of her room, I knew we were surrounded. Leonardo didn't send men for warnings. He sent them to finish what he started.
But that cry—God, that baby's cry—it split the chaos. It cut through the gunshots, louder than all the screaming. My son. Our son. He was here. Alive. And Leonardo knew it would break her. Knew it would break me.
And now… he was playing games.
