The Escape

The corridor narrowed, the air smelled of smoke and electricity. Their steps echoed too loudly, betraying them. Bella struggled to keep up, her heart hammering in her ears. Every corner felt like a trap, every shadow a predator waiting for the right moment. Her silk dress snagged briefly on a metal railing, but she didn’t notice; her attention was entirely on Luca and the chaos erupting behind them.

Suddenly, Luca stopped. Too quickly.

“Hide,” he whispered, almost without sound.

Before she could respond, he grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her into a niche between two service doors. She slammed against the wall, wind knocked out of her lungs. The steel-cold surface burned her back, yet it anchored her in place. Before she could recover, he had already vanished from sight.

Bella pressed herself flat, trying to make herself small. Her ears rang with the sounds of the ballroom: heels slipping, screams tearing through the air, glass shattering. Then the unmistakable cracks of gunfire. Bullets pinged off metal, ricocheted off marble, each shot a hammer in her chest. She could feel the vibrations through the floor, each thump a heartbeat of terror.

A man stepped out from the shadows of the corridor. Dark suit. Hard eyes.

Bella saw only outlines before they collided.

The blows were short, precise, no wasted motion. Luca struck first—elbow, fist, knee—each hit calculated. The attacker cursed, lost his balance, slammed into the wall. Another strike and he crumpled to the floor, incapacitated, but alive.

Then something cracked. Not a gunshot. A blow. Another man emerged from the darkness and smashed Luca across the head with the pistol handle. The sound was hollow, horrifyingly physical. Like breaking.

Luca’s body collapsed. Knees gave way. Heavy, uncontrolled, hitting the floor with a thud that rattled Bella’s teeth.

“No!”

Bella reacted before panic could form. There was no time to think. The man was already turning the gun toward her.

Her hand slid down under the hem of her silk dress. The slit parted slightly, whispering against her thigh. Fingers closed around the familiar, cold shape of the thigh holster. Muscle memory took over.

The pistol slid into her palm. Small. Light. Lethal.

She raised it without hesitation.

The man froze. His composure cracked for the briefest instant.

Bad assumption.

Bella pulled the trigger. The shot tore through the corridor. Her arm jolted; the bullet struck squarely. The man faltered, air escaping his lungs, and in that instinctive, dirty motion, he fired too.

Pain struck her shoulder like searing iron. A scream tore from her throat as the pistol slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor and spinning into darkness.

Her knees buckled.

The man took another uncertain step, then collapsed, heavy and final.

Bella gasped, clutching her shoulder, blood oozing between her fingers. The world narrowed. Her gaze fell to Luca. Lying motionless, unarmed, unconscious. He had saved her.

She stayed on her knees, breathing sharp, painful gasps. The corridor felt too long, too dark. The emergency lights flickered, casting fractured shadows across the walls.

“No…”

She gritted her teeth. With the hand that still obeyed her, she dragged herself toward him. Every movement was agony. Her shoulder burned. Blood left a dark trail across the tiles.

“Hey,” she whispered, barely audible. “Don’t you dare.”

She reached him, collapsed beside him. Fingers trembling, she checked his neck for a pulse.

One second. Two.

Then she felt it. Weak. Irregular. But there. Relief struck painfully.

“All right,” she exhaled. “Hang on.”

Her hand slid across his chest as if anchoring him in place. His breathing was shallow, face pale, blood glinting darkly under the pulsing light.

Sounds began to fade. Steps. Voices. Commands, blurred, indistinct.

The heat in her shoulder spread into a shiver. The world tilted. The corridor spun. Lights left long, blurred trails.

“Just a little longer,” she murmured, unsure if she spoke to him or herself.

Her forehead rested against his shoulder. The weight in her body suddenly became too much. Darkness closed in.

The ballroom was endless chaos. Every second stretched into eternity. Every breath a gamble. Guests screamed, stumbling over debris, shards of glass glinting dangerously. Chandeliers swayed, threatening to collapse. Smoke twisted through the beams of light, making shadows dance across terrified faces.

Then the special forces took over. Orders were short, precise, without explanation. Weapons raised, eyes sharp. Anyone not following instructions was pushed aside. No exceptions.

This was no longer a gala. This was controlled chaos.

The mafia families understood the signal. Don Vittorio Santoro left the ballroom without a word, his gaze sweeping over the chaos. Alessia Romano followed close behind, expression tight. Both had holstered their pistols, breathing heavy from the sudden spike of adrenaline. Their thoughts were on Luca—where he had gone, whether he was safe.

On the other side, Don Giovanni Valenti and Marco Valenti stood rigid, scanning the room. Their pistols were already back in their holsters, but chests heaving from tension. Every shadow, every movement had them alert, worry fixed on Bella.

One side feared for Luca, the other for Bella.

Stretchers filled the ballroom. Too many to count. Some covered with white sheets, already darkening with stains. Others moaned or lay still. The metallic scent of blood mixed with shattered perfume and smoke.

At the far edge of the venue, where service corridors led away from the hall, unmarked doors opened. Paramedics and special forces pushed stretchers with the wounded and the dead without checking identities. All were simply “injured civilians”—numbers in the chaos.

Bella lay unconscious on the floor, shoulder aching, breathing difficult. Beside her was him, unconscious, blood across his head.

Paramedics and medics worked swiftly. She was lifted onto a stretcher, Luca beside her. Her fingers still twitched, as if wanting to hold onto his hand even through the straps.

The mafia families vanished into the night. Paramedics had their hands full with stretchers and the wounded. Don Vittorio and Alessia, Don Giovanni and Marco—all were left without a trace. No one knew where Bella and Luca were.