Page 73 of Auctioned Innocence
We make it to the hallway, and I immediately take point while Dante reloads—positioning that would horrify Marco if he could see it, but this isn’t a training exercise. This is real, and I’m not the helpless princess everyone wants me to be.
“Corner,” I call out, moving with the moves drilled into me during years of “just in case” lessons. I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life without knowing it.
We’re moving, but I can barely think straight. Dante’s behind me, I think—yeah, he’s covering the rear. Bodies everywhere down the empty, blood-slicked hallway. Jesus, there are so manybodies.
“Almost to the tunnel entrance,” Dante says, checking his ammunition. “Mario’s team should have the others out by now.”
A bullet whizzes past my ear, so close I feel the heat of its passage. I don’t hesitate—I spin and return fire, the shotgun’s boom echoing off the walls. Someone screams. Someone falls.
“Good shot,” Dante sounds almost proud, but there’s something else in his voice—concern, maybe, or fear at how easily I’ve adapted to this violence.
“Thank Marco’s paranoid training—” I cut off as more guards appear ahead. Too many. At least six, maybe eight, all armed and taking cover behind overturned furniture.
Dante pushes me behind a marble column as bullets fly, chips of stone exploding around us. I can see him weighing options, knowing they’re all bad.
We’re outnumbered, outgunned, and running out of ammunition.
But then I spot something they missed—the fire suppression system above us, nozzles and sensors throughout the ceiling. Marco always said the best weapons are the ones your enemies don’t see coming.
“Cover me,” I say, already moving.
“Sofia…” Dante’s voice carries a warning but also trust. He knows me well enough by now to recognize when I have a plan.
“Trust me!” I’m already lining up the shot, adjusting for the angle and the weird acoustics of the hallway.
He lays down covering fire, his shots precise and measured, keeping the guards pinned while I take aim at the main sprinkler control. The system is old, probably from when the mansion was first built, which means it’s pressure-based rather than electronic.
The shotgun kicks against my shoulder as I fire. The control panel explodes in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then?—
Water explodes outward from every nozzle, a torrential downpour that instantly turns the elegant hallway into aslippery nightmare. The guards curse and scramble for footing, their expensive shoes providing no traction on the suddenly treacherous marble.
“Now!” I grab Dante’s hand and we run through the chaos, past slipping guards who can’t get a clear shot, around the corner toward what I hope is still our escape route.
The service corridors are darker, narrower, smelling of cleaning supplies and fear. Our footsteps echo off the concrete walls, joined by the sounds of pursuit behind us. But we’re faster, and we know where we’re going.
At least, I hope we do.
“Touching,” Viktor’s voice freezes us both.
We skid to a stop at the intersection of two corridors. He stands at the end of the main hallway, gun trained on us with steadiness. Blood runs down his face from where Maisie struck him.
Beautiful, brave Maisie who fought like a warrior and died like a hero.
“The princess and her protector,” he continues, his voice carrying that same pleasant tone that makes my skin crawl. “Such a heartwarming reunion.”
More guards appear behind us, cutting off our retreat. At least four, maybe five. We’re trapped in a concrete box with nowhere to run.
“You really thought you could infiltrate my auction?” Viktor’s laugh is ugly, full of triumph and malice. “That I wouldn’t recognize the famous Dante Moretti, even with his clever Russian act?”
Dante moves slightly, positioning himself between Viktor and me. “Your auction?” I ask, mind racing through implications even as my hands check my remaining ammunition. Two shells. Not enough. “I thought Dominic Calabrese?—”
“Dominic is a fool playing at his brother’s games. Anthony had vision, but no execution.” Viktor’s smile is the kind that belongs on predators. “This? This ismine.Mynetwork.Mybuyers. My merchandise.”
The casual way he says that last word—merchandise—makes my blood boil. Maisie wasn’t merchandise. None of us were. We’re human beings with names and families and dreams.
“She belongs to no one,” Dante snarls, and I feel him tensing for action, muscles coiling like a spring about to snap.
