Page 119 of Auctioned Innocence
“Thirty-five years,” Sofia whispers, her face pale with shock. “He’s been Uncle Lorenzo for thirty-five years. At every birthday, every Christmas, every family dinner. He was there when Marco got his first tattoo. When I graduated high school. When—” Her voice breaks.
“When you were taken,” I finish grimly. “He knew every detail of our protection protocols. Every safe house location. Every?—”
“He knew I’d be alone that night,” Sofia says suddenly, horror dawning in her eyes. “When we were planning the dinner party, Uncle Lorenzo specifically suggested moving my security detail to the perimeter. Said it would be less obvious, more elegant. I thought he was just being considerate of the guests.”
“Because he knew exactly how to breach it,” Alberto confirms. “He’s been feeding Viktor and Dominic information for months. But it goes deeper. The Calabrese auction house? Lorenzo helped them plan Sofia’s specific capture. He knew her routines, her security protocols, her vulnerabilities.”
Sofia’s hand flies to her mouth. “The dinner party. He suggested I stay home that night instead of going to Mom and Dad’s charity gala. Said I should focus on my studies, that it would be ‘a quiet night at home.’ He knew exactly when I’d be alone and how to get to me.”
“He served you up like a gift,” I snarl, rage building in my body. “Made sure you’d be isolated that night, made sure security would be stretched thin.”
“All those times he asked about my schedule,” Sofia says, her voice hollow. “My classes, my routines, where I liked to study. I thought he was just being protective. But he was?—”
A shot rings out.
I move without thinking, tackling Sofia as bullets tear through the spot where she’d been standing. Alberto crumples, red blooming on his chest—three shots, center mass. Our connection to my father’s past dies with him.
Sofia screams.
“Move!” I drag Sofia behind a shipping container as more shots echo through the warehouse, my chest tight with something that feels like grief. The old man was the last link tomy father, the only person who could have told me who Antonio Moretti really was. Now he’s gone, taking those answers with him.
The warehouse transforms into a war zone of light and shadow—at least six shooters, positioned on catwalks and behind cover points. Excellent spacing, overlapping fields of fire.
Lorenzo’s cleanup crew.
Sofia’s already in motion, weapon steady despite the shock of betrayal. My fierce, beautiful warrior, compartmentalizing trauma to survive. She takes position at the container’s corner, providing cover as I check Alberto’s pulse.
Nothing. The old man’s eyes stare sightlessly at the warehouse ceiling. For a moment I want to rage at the unfairness of it all—losing the one person who knew my father just when I’d found him.
“Sniper on the—shit, northeast catwalk!” Sofia calls out, her voice tight as she fires. “Got him—no, wait—” A scream echoes down, followed by metal clattering. “Fuck yeah. Got him.”
I pivot left, engaging two shooters attempting to flank our position. The first goes down clean—headshot. The second dives behind a forklift, but Sofia’s already moving, using the container maze to circle behind him.
We fight in sync. When I need to reload, she’s there. When she signals for a magazine, I’m already sliding one across the concrete floor.
“Loading dock exit,” I shout, spotting our escape route.
“Negative!” Sofia’s voice cuts through the gunfire. “Two more shooters just came through. We’re boxed in!”
Another burst of automatic fire chews up the concrete beside my head. Dust and debris rain down as I count muzzle flashes. Eight shooters now, maybe nine. They’re coordinated and patient.
“Up and over,” I respond, already moving toward the container stack. The shipping containers are stacked three high—dangerous climbing, but it beats dying trapped like rats. She follows without hesitation, trusting me completely. Her movements are fluid, efficient—scaling the corrugated metal with the grace of someone who’s done plenty of urban climbing. We reach the top just as bullets start sparking off the metal around us, the shooters below adjusting their aim.
The warehouse roof is a maze of ventilation units and support beams. But between us and the next building lies a gap that looks impossibly wide in the darkness—at least twelve feet across, with a thirty-foot drop to concrete if we miss.
“That’s a hell of a jump,” Sofia says, breathing hard.
“Let’s do it together,” I say, taking her hand. The trust in her eyes as she nods nearly undoes me.
We run. The edge rushes toward us, and for one terrifying moment we’re airborne, suspended over empty space with only momentum and hope keeping us alive.
We hit the adjacent roof hard, rolling to absorb the impact. Sofia’s up first, already scanning for threats, checking our six. Still moving, still thinking, still fighting.
“Fire escape on the south side,” she calls, spotting our way down.
We sprint across rooftops like parkour artists, leaping smaller gaps, dodging around HVAC units and satellite dishes. Behind us, shouts echo as Lorenzo’s men try to follow, but they’re not built for this kind of chase.
The fire escape is rusted, creaking ominously under our weight as we descend three stories to the alley below. Our car waits where we left it, engine still warm.
