BETWEEN TWO DEVILS

The first thing Elena heard was rain.

It beat against leaves and stone, soft but steady, like a thousand heartbeats running out of time. When her vision cleared, the world swam in shades of gray and smoke. The gunshot still echoed somewhere inside her skull. For a moment she didn’t know who had fallen—or if she was the one bleeding.

“Stay down!” a voice barked.

She blinked, recognizing Alessandro’s outline through the haze. He was crouched beside her, gun drawn, rainwater dripping from his hair. Somewhere behind him, engines roared and men shouted in Italian. The clearing had turned into chaos—figures moving through mist, flashes of light, and the smell of burned powder.

Elena pushed herself upright, dazed. “Who—who was shot?”

“Your father’s people,” Alessandro said without looking back. “They found us faster than I expected.”

Another volley of gunfire ripped through the trees. Bark exploded near her face. Alessandro grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the car for cover.

“Get down,” he hissed.

The ground was cold and slick. She could feel the tremor in his grip—controlled, but real. He wasn’t untouchable after all. He was human, furious, and afraid of losing control.

Lucia’s voice came from somewhere behind them. “We have to move! They’re circling us!”

Alessandro peeked over the hood, fired twice, and ducked back down. “Too late for that.”

Elena’s head spun. Her father. Where was he? She scanned the clearing through the smoke and flashes of headlights—and saw him across the field, shouting orders to men in black coats. Salvatore Romano looked older, harder, but unmistakably alive.

He was alive.

“Dad!” she cried.

He heard her. For a heartbeat his face softened, the way it used to when she was small and scraped her knees. Then the softness vanished, replaced by something unreadable.

“Stay with me!” Alessandro ordered, dragging her back before a bullet hit the metal beside her ear.

She struggled in his grasp. “Let me go! He’s my father!”

“He’s using you,” Alessandro snapped. “If you go to him now, you’ll both be dead before sunrise.”

“I don’t care!”

She tore free and ran before he could stop her, boots slipping in the mud. The rain blurred everything, but she kept her eyes on the single shape that mattered—her father waving frantically, calling her name. She reached the middle of the clearing just as another shot rang out.

Lucia screamed.

Elena froze. The sound came from behind her. She turned in time to see Lucia collapse near the car, clutching her shoulder, blood mixing with rainwater. Alessandro spun, fired at the shooter, then sprinted toward Elena, fury etched into every line of his face.

“Are you insane?” he shouted, grabbing her arm again. “Do you want to die here?”

“I just—” she choked. “I saw him. I saw my father.”

“And he saw you,” Alessandro said through gritted teeth. “Now everyone else has, too.”

He pulled her toward the tree line, half dragging, half carrying her. They stumbled into the forest as the gunfire faded behind them, replaced by the hollow rhythm of rain on leaves. When they finally stopped, both were breathing hard.

Elena jerked her arm free. “You had no right—”

“You think you know what’s happening,” he said, voice low and raw. “But you don’t. Your father isn’t the man you remember.”

“You’re lying.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her, as if weighing how much truth she could stand. “He betrayed me long before he betrayed you. You think I wanted this war? He started it.”

Lightning flashed, bright and brief. In that instant she saw it: a scar running along Alessandro’s jaw, pale against his skin. It wasn’t new. It was old and jagged, like something earned the hard way.

“What did he do?” she asked.

He hesitated. “He killed my brother.”

The world seemed to tilt. “That’s not possible.”

“I buried him myself,” Alessandro said quietly. “Your father pulled the trigger.”

Elena shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t. You’re twisting this.”

“Believe what you want.” He turned away, scanning the trees. “We need to move before his men find us.”

She wanted to argue, to call him a liar, but the words wouldn’t come. The image of her father’s face across the clearing—the guilt in his eyes—wouldn’t leave her mind.

They moved through the forest in silence, the storm easing to a drizzle. Somewhere in the distance, engines started again. Alessandro guided her through an overgrown path that led to an old stone chapel half-buried in vines. He kicked open the door and motioned her inside.

The chapel was cold and empty except for rows of broken pews and the faint smell of wax. He dropped his gun on a bench and rubbed a hand over his face.

“You’re freezing,” he said. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He tore his jacket off and draped it over her shoulders before she could refuse. The gesture was almost gentle, and that made it worse. She hated that part of her wanted to thank him.

“What now?” she asked quietly.

“Now we wait,” he said. “Lucia will meet us if she’s still alive.”

The thought twisted her stomach. “She got shot because of me.”

“No,” he said. “Because of me.”

For the first time, his voice cracked a little. He sat on the edge of the nearest pew, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“You’re not a monster,” she said before she could stop herself.

He looked up sharply. “Don’t make the mistake of believing that.”

“Then prove it. Let me talk to my father. Let me hear his side.”

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled too tight. Outside, thunder rolled again.

Finally he said, “If I let you talk to him, you’ll see what I already know—that he’s been lying to both of us.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

He gave a bitter smile. “I’m never wrong.”

She wanted to hate him for that arrogance, but something in his eyes told her it was armor, not pride. Beneath it, he looked tired, almost lost.

Before she could speak, the chapel door creaked open.

Lucia stumbled inside, pale and soaked with blood. “They’re coming,” she gasped. “Salvatore’s men. Dozens of them. He wants his daughter back.”

Alessandro stood instantly. “How far?”

“Ten minutes, maybe less.”

He turned to Elena. “You have a choice. Come with me now, and I can protect you. Go to him, and I can’t.”

Her pulse hammered. “He’s my father.”

“And I’m the only reason you’re still breathing.”

Lucia grabbed Alessandro’s arm. “We can’t outrun them.”

“I know,” he said. His gaze never left Elena. “But we can outsmart them.”

He crossed the room to an old confessional booth, pulled open a hidden panel, and revealed a narrow tunnel leading underground.

“Where does it go?” Elena asked.

“To a place where we’ll both get answers,” he said. “But only if you trust me.”

The sound of approaching engines grew louder. Headlights cut through the trees outside. Shadows moved past the chapel windows.

Elena’s heart pounded. Her father’s voice echoed faintly in the distance, calling her name again.

She looked from the tunnel to the door, torn between blood and danger, between the past and the man standing before her.

“Choose,” Alessandro said softly. “Now.”

She hesitated for one breath too long—and the chapel doors burst open.

Men flooded in with rifles raised. Lucia shouted. Alessandro spun toward the noise, gun in hand. Elena dropped to the floor as the first shots ripped through the wooden pews. Splinters rained down like hail.

Someone grabbed her wrist, dragging her through the tunnel. She didn’t see who—it could have been Alessandro, it could have been someone else—but she stumbled forward into darkness as the sound of gunfire echoed behind her.

Then the tunnel ceiling cracked. A roar filled her ears.

And everything went black again.