Chapter 7 - THE LIGHTS COME BACK ON
The backup generators kicked in ten seconds later, flooding the warehouse in harsh red emergency light.
I blinked against the sudden glare.
Vance was lying motionless on the concrete floor. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle.
Dante stood over him, his zip-ties snapped in half, his chest heaving. He picked up Vance’s dropped pistol and immediately aimed it at the warehouse doors.
The two guards rushed back in, but Dante fired twice before they could even raise their weapons. They dropped instantly.
The room went dead silent.
Chloe was backed against the concrete wall, trembling violently, her hands covering her mouth.
I dropped the tire iron and ran to her, pulling her into a fierce, desperate hug. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Chloe sobbed into my shoulder. “I thought I was saving us, Sarah. I’m so sorry.”
Dante walked over to us. His suit was ruined, his hands bruised. He looked at my sister, his expression unreadable.
“You pulled the lights, Chloe,” Dante said quietly. “You saved my life.”
Chloe wiped her eyes. “He was going to kill you. I couldn't let him.”
Dante nodded slowly. “We’re even. But if you ever betray my family again, I won't be so forgiving.”
He turned to me. “We need to get back to the SUV. The Moretti boss will send reinforcements.”
We ran out of the warehouse, back into the freezing rain.
When we reached the alley where I had parked the SUV, my blood ran completely cold.
The car doors were wide open.
The engine was still running.
But the backseat was empty.
Mia was gone.
And lying on the wet pavement, gasping for air, was Isabella.
Dante fell to his knees beside his former fiancée. “Isabella! Who took her?!”
Isabella grabbed Dante’s collar, her hands stained with her own blood.
“It wasn't the Morettis,” Isabella coughed, her eyes losing focus. “It was... it was the man from the party.”
“What man?” Dante demanded.
Isabella’s breathing grew shallow. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled place card.
It was the one Mia had drawn. The one with gold crayon.
But written across the back, in elegant, cursive handwriting, were three words.
THE ORPHANAGE, DANTE.
Dante stared at the handwriting. All the color drained from his face.
“No,” Dante whispered. “That’s impossible.”
“Who is it?” I asked, terrified.
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Dante looked up at me, his eyes wide with a fear I had never seen in him before.
“It’s my father,” Dante said. “He didn't die in prison ten years ago.”
