Page 16 of Auctioned Innocence
“Has been compromised,” I whisper frantically, already climbing out onto the roof.
The tiles are slick under my feet, still damp from an earlier rain.
My socks slip on the smooth surface, and my heart lurches as I nearly lose my balance.
The gun digs into the waistband of my jeans, an unfamiliar weight.
“I checked the app—it shows all systems normal, but the feeds are on loop. They’re inside and moving with purpose. Not thieves. This is?—”
“Targeted,” he finishes, his voice deadly calm now.
The calm that means he’s already planning violence.
I hear him barking orders to someone—probably Dante—his voice muffled as he covers the phone
Then, crystal clear: “Where are you right now?”
The edge in his voice makes my stomach drop.
Marco doesn’t scare easily.
“My room. I’m going out the window. Meet me at our spot?”
Our childhood hideout, where we’d retreat when things got too intense at home.
The old treehouse in the woods, our sanctuary since we were kids.
“No,” Marco’s response is immediate. “Too obvious. They’ll have studied our patterns, our property. Head for the Castellanos’s guesthouse across the lake. I’ll meet you?—”
A floorboard creaks right outside my door—that loose board I usually avoid because it gives me away when I’m sneaking in late.
My breath catches in my throat, and I can feel a panic attack starting to build, black spots swimming at the edges of my vision.
I’m half out the window, one leg still inside, too exposed.
“Sofia?” Marco’s voice holds real fear now, the kind I’ve never heard from my unshakeable big brother. “Talk to me.”
“They’re here,” I whisper, panic making my voice shake.
The doorknob turns slowly, deliberately.
My fingers fumble with the gun’s safety, but terror makes me clumsy. “Marco, I’m sorry, I’m so?—”
My bedroom door bursts open, the force sending my framed photos crashing to the floor.
Glass shatters, and I catch sight of the family portrait from Dad’s birthday—all of us together, happy, safe—now broken on the carpet.
The lamp topples, casting strange shadows across the walls.
I scream, scrambling fully onto the roof, but strong hands grab my hair, yanking me backward with such force that pain explodes across my scalp.
Tears spring to my eyes as I’m dragged through the window like a rag doll.
The gun clatters uselessly to the carpet as I fight with every ounce of strength, clawing, kicking, connecting with something solid.
I hear a grunt of pain, a curse in a language I don’t recognize.
One small victory as I catch one glimpse of masked figures—three of them, all in black.
