Page 169 of Freed
Lower.
My stomach.
Every nerve in my body lights with panic.
“No.”
“One life,” he says softly. “Sometimes that is all it takes to correct a mistake.”
Terror tears through me so violently it almost feels like clarity. I grab the nearest thing—a heavy crystal vase from the console table—and hurl it at him with all the strength I have.
It misses his face but catches his shoulder. He swears and the gun jerks.
I run.
Not because there’s anywhere to go. Because instinct is louder than logic. I sprint toward the hallway, bare feet slipping on polished wood, hearing him behind me, hearing his shoes strike the floor, hearing my own broken breathing.
A shot cracks behind me and glass shatters somewhere to my right. I gasp and slam into the wall near the bedroom corridor, one hand over my stomach, the other clawing for balance. There is nowhere to hide. No lock strong enough. No exit I can reach in time.
Federico rounds the corner with murder in his eyes.
“Enough,” he says.
He raises the gun again.
Then a door near Lorenzo’s room blows inward. Wood splinters,men shout, and feet pound over the floor. Federico turns. And Lorenzo hits him with a shot to the chest so hard it spins him sideways.
For one heartbeat, everything stops.
Lorenzo stands in the wrecked doorway in a dark coat, gun still lifted, his expression so cold it doesn’t look human. Two men spill in behind him, weapons drawn, but he barely seems aware of them. He sees only Federico. The older man staggers, blood already soaking through his shirt, and somehow still tries to lift the gun again.
Lorenzo shoots him a second time. Then a third. Federico crashes backward into the wall and slides to the floor, dead before he lands.
Silence slams down. Not true silence, of course. There are men moving. One of Lorenzo’s people is kneeling beside the wounded guard. Another is barking into a phone. Somewhere glass is still tinkling onto the floor. But for me, for one suspended and terrible second, there is only Lorenzo.
He turns toward me.
All that killing cold vanishes the instant he sees I’m still standing.
“Cara.”
I shake so hard I can barely answer. “He—he came up in the elevator?—”
Lorenzo crosses the room in three strides and catches my face in both hands.
“Are you hurt?”
I stare at him.
His pupils are blown wide. There’s blood on his cuff. His breathing is ragged.
“Elizabeth.” Louder now. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head once. “No.”
The relief that moves through him is violent. He closes hiseyes and presses his forehead to mine for one brief, brutal second, as if that is the only thing keeping him upright.
Then he looks to my stomach.
