The water was a silent, freezing tomb. For a second, I just let myself sink. The weight of the diamond collar—that beautiful, expensive anchor—pulled at my neck, dragging me deeper into the dark.
Run. The word echoed in my head with every beat of my heart.
I broke the surface twenty yards away from the pier, gasping for air that tasted like smoke and salt. Behind me, the warehouse was a skeleton of orange flames and black soot. The explosion had ripped the roof off, sending a plume of fire into the grey Italian sky.
I grabbed onto a floating wooden pallet, my teeth chattering so hard I thought they'd snap. I looked at the shore.
The sirens were coming. I could hear them in the distance—the high-pitched wail of the Carabinieri. In ten minutes, this place would be crawling with cops. If I swam to the next pier over, I could disappear into the shipping containers, find a truck, and be out of Naples by sunset.
No more Kyle. No more arrogant commands. No more Sera. No more "property."
I looked back at the burning warehouse.
"You're a fool, Valentina," I whispered, the words lost to the wind. "He told you you were an asset. He told you you were nothing."
But I remembered the way his hand felt right before he shoved me to safety. It wasn't the grip of a man holding onto a checkbook. It was the grip of a man who was terrified of being alone. And I remembered the photo in his pocket. He'd been carrying my ghost for five years.
I didn't swim for the open sea.
I kicked toward the burning pier, my muscles screaming in protest. I scrambled up the barnacle-encrusted ladder, the sharp shells slicing my palms, but I didn't feel the pain. I only felt the heat of the fire ahead.
I reached the top and collapsed onto the concrete, dripping wet, the silk slip clinging to me like a second skin. The warehouse was a furnace.
"Kyle!" I screamed, my "loud mouth" finally finding its purpose. "Kyle Vanguard, you arrogant bastard, answer me!"
Nothing but the roar of the flames.
Then, through the shifting wall of black smoke, a figure stumbled out. He was covered in ash, his suit jacket gone, his white shirt stained almost entirely red on the left side. He was dragging someone behind him by the collar of their coat—Moretti.
Kyle collapsed ten feet from the water's edge, letting go of Moretti's unconscious body. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the smoke-filled sky, his chest heaving.
I ran to him, sliding on the wet concrete until I was on my knees by his side. "Kyle! Look at me!"
He turned his head slowly. When he saw me, his eyes widened, then narrowed into that familiar, frustrated glare.
"I told you... to jump," he wheezed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "You never... damn well... listen."
"I did jump!" I shouted, tears finally blurring my vision. "I just came back to tell you how much I hate you!"
Kyle let out a weak, laugh that turned into a groan of pain. He reached up with a shaking hand, his fingers brushing the wet hair away from my face.
"You're a terrible thief, Val," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the diamond collar that was still locked tight around my neck. "You had the chance to steal your freedom... and you threw it away for a man who doesn't even have a heart."
"Maybe I just wanted to see you lose for once," I bit out, leaning down until my forehead touched his.
The sirens were close now. The red and blue lights were reflecting off the smoke. Kyle's hand dropped from my face, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Don't you dare die," I hissed into his ear. "You still owe me for that dress."