Bianca's POV
She shrugged, smug. "Still more than you."
That was it.
I slapped the phone from her hand. It clattered to the ground.
Then I lunged, my hand flying to her throat before I could stop myself.
The bottle slipped from Serafina's hand and hit the floor with a hollow clink. The sharp, unmistakable stench of gasoline exploded into the air, hitting my nose like a slap. It burned the back of my throat, filling the room in seconds.
We struggled, pushing, grabbing, stumbling over each other. Then she kicked something. Maybe it was a lighter, or maybe her heel struck the metal leg of the bed frame.
Flames erupted like they'd been waiting for a reason to consume us.
Smoke swallowed the room. My body, still healing from what Enzo had done to me at Dominic's order, couldn't keep up. I choked, coughing violently, my legs collapsing beneath me.
The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was fire crawling across the ceiling.
"Bianca!"
"Don Valente! It's too dangerous! You can't go in! Let the soldiers handle it—"
"Out of the way! Bianca's still in there!"
The sound of Dominic's voice tore through the smoke. I tried to open my eyes. Had I imagined it? Did he really say my name? Did he still care?
"Dominic, I'm here too. Please save me and our baby!"
For a moment, I almost believed he was coming for me.
It was pathetic, really. That tiny flicker of hope that burned inside me just from hearing my name fall from his lips. Like I was still someone he'd fight for.
But of course, reality slapped the fantasy right out of me. He hadn't come running in because he missed me. Not because he cared. He'd stormed in because he wanted to save face. Wanted to be the Don. The man in charge.
And when Serafina cried out? He didn't even pause. Just scooped her up like she was some precious gem while I lay there, smoke choking the last bit of strength out of me.
Half an hour passed.
After making sure Serafina was safe, he tore through every hallway of the estate to find me.
But I was gone.
I still wasn't sure how I'd made it out. The flames were everywhere, roaring in my ears and stealing every breath from my lungs. Smoke clawed at my throat, filling me with dizzying heat. But when instinct finally took over, it wasn't calculation that saved me. It was something deeper, something animal, the part of me that refused to die in a house that had already killed everything else I loved.
I moved mid-cough, muscles screaming, adrenaline flooding my body in a rush of pain and power. Everything became clearer and sharper. Even through the haze, my focus locked onto one thing: survival.
My bag. I lunged for it, grabbing the strap with fingers I couldn't feel. It tasted like ash and desperation against my skin, but I clung to it. Then I threw myself through the shattered window.
Glass scraped my sides as I crashed through, landing hard on the grass outside. My legs buckled, my chest heaving. But I was alive. Barely.
And I didn't look back.
One of the side hallways must've been untouched, or maybe the fire hadn't reached that wing yet. I dragged myself down it blindly, lungs screaming, barely able to stand, until I reached the back service door. The one the kitchen staff used for deliveries, the one no soldier ever bothered to guard because nothing important ever came through it. I collapsed outside in the cold night air, coughing so hard I thought my ribs would snap.
No one saw me. No one followed.
And I didn't stop. Not even when my knees buckled. Not even when I had to use street signs and parked cars for support. I just kept going, because if I stopped, if I let myself get caught again, I knew I wouldn't survive it this time.
Then I boarded a flight to the Northern Territories.
The moment before takeoff, a message came in.
From Dominic:
[Don't have time for games, Bianca. I'm not playing hide-and-seek.]
I stared at the screen.
Then powered off the phone.
