Page 143 of Auctioned Innocence
Through the smoke and flames, I see James himself emerging from the warehouse, moving with the confident stride of someone whose plan is working perfectly. He’s not alone—at least six men in tactical gear, moving toward Sofia’s unconscious form where she landed in the gravel twenty feet from our wreckage.
“You should have kept her locked away, Moretti!” James calls back as his men provide covering fire, their positions coordinated to create overlapping fields of fire that make movement impossible. “Protected her like a good attack dog instead of letting her play soldier!”
I try to return fire, but my vision is blurring from a head impact and my weapon is somewhere in the twisted metal around me. Every time I move, more bullets spark off the car frame, forcing me back into cover.
James doesn’t hurry as he approaches Sofia. He moves with the confidence of someone who’s planned this down to thesecond, someone who knows exactly how long it will take his suppression teams to keep me pinned. When he reaches her, he checks her pulse with efficiency before hauling her upright.
She’s limp, unconscious, blood running from her temple where flying glass caught her. But she’s breathing. Alive.
Another explosion rocks the car—not another charge, but something designed to create more smoke, more chaos, more cover for their extraction. The blast wave hits me like a physical punch, driving me back against the twisted metal as debris rains down.
I try to push forward anyway, to reach Sofia, to do something other than watch helplessly as James drags her toward the warehouse entrance. But a piece of the car’s frame—twisted metal that used to be part of the roof—chooses that moment to collapse, striking me across the temple with crushing force.
Stars explode across my vision. The world tilts sideways, sounds becoming distant and distorted. I’m dimly aware of hitting the ground hard, of gravel biting into my face, of the taste of blood and motor oil.
The last thing I see before darkness takes me is James carrying Sofia through the warehouse entrance, her dark hair hanging limp, her body completely motionless in his arms.
Then nothing.
Time passes in fragments.Consciousness comes and goes like waves on a beach.
First: Pain. Sharp and immediate, centered behind my eyes but radiating through my skull like cracks in glass. The taste of blood—metallic and wrong.
Second: Sound. Distant voices, engines, the crackle of flames. But muffled, like hearing underwater.
Third: Smell. Burning fuel, hot metal, the acrid bite of smoke and chemicals.
Finally: Memory. Sofia’s unconscious form. James’s satisfied smile. The ambush designed around everything he knew about how we operate.
When I finally come tocompletely, the world is a symphony of pain and the harsh smell of burning electronics. My head feels like it’s been split open with an axe, and every movement sends fresh waves of agony through my skull. Blood has dried on my face, pulling at the skin when I try to move.
I check my watch—or try to. The face is shattered, hands frozen at different positions. Could be minutes. Could be hours. The quality of light seems different, more orange, suggesting either sunset or the glow of fires that have had time to really take hold.
My phone is buzzing insistently somewhere in the wreckage, the sound cutting through the ringing in my ears like a lifeline to the world beyond this twisted metal coffin. I drag myself toward the sound, each movement a negotiation with a body that’s taken more punishment than it wants to admit.
The phone’s screen is cracked but functional, missed calls and messages stacking up like accusations. How long was I out? How much time did I give them to consolidate their position, to secure Sofia, to implement whatever Lorenzo has planned?
The latest message is from Lorenzo:Your little princess is awake and asking for you. Come alone or watch her pay for the Renaldi family’s arrogance.
Awake. She’s awake, which means alive, which means there’s still time. But the message’s casual cruelty, the way it reduces Sofia to a possession, to a bargaining chip—it makes my vision edge red despite the concussion.
Marco’s voice crackles through comms, the sound cutting through my disorientation like a lifeline: “Dante? What the fuck is going on? We heard explosions—what’s your status?”
I struggle to sit up in the wreckage, my head spinning as I try to assess the situation. The warehouse looks different now—more lights, more movement. They’ve had time to reinforce, to prepare for whatever comes next.
“Ambush,” I manage, spitting blood. “James was ready for us.”
Marco sucks in a deep breath. “Sofia?”
The question hangs in the air like a blade. I force myself to look at the warehouse entrance where I last saw her, now guarded by at least four visible sentries. More shadows move behind reinforced windows. They’ve turned the entire building into a fortress while I was unconscious.
“Taken. But alive.” I check my weapons, relieved to find my backup pistol still holstered despite the crash. “Lorenzo just confirmed she’s awake.”
“Extraction team is two minutes out?—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended, driven by something deeper than regular thinking. “This is exactly what she planned for.”
“She said it was only a possibility. That doesn’t sound like she counted on it.”
