69 "The Divorce Papers on the Table, a Positive Test in the Dark, and the Husband Who Walked Away for Six Months Just to Keep Me Alive: How a Fake Separation Turned Into a War for Our Unborn Child"

The distant pop of a silenced gunshot echoed across the silent expanse of the Moretti docks, sharp and isolated like a dry twig snapping in the dark.

My heart stalled.

By the door, the syndicate guard flinched, his boots scraping against the polished hardwood as he turned his head sharply toward the hallway, his grip tightening instantly around his rifle.

“Stay put,” he muttered more to himself than to me, his breathing shallow and erratic.

Now or never, Alina.

The rough hemp ropes bit deeply into the skin of my wrists, drawing a hot line of friction-burn pain, but I didn't care. Adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and metallic, overriding every logical instinct telling me to stay still. I twisted my wrists inward, pressing the bones together to create a fraction of an inch of slack, then yanked outward with all the strength left in my bruised body.

Rip.

A sharp pain tore through my skin as the coarse fibers scraped raw flesh, but the knot loosened just enough. I wrenched my left hand free, gasping aloud as air hit the bleeding skin. Without wasting a millisecond, I grabbed the remaining loop with my free hand and pulled it over my right wrist.

Free.

My legs were stiff, needles of pins-and-needles crawling up from my ankles as the blood rushed back into my lower limbs. I slid off the wooden chair, keeping low, my eyes locked on the guard’s broad back as he peered out through the crack of the half-open study door.

I needed a weapon. Anything.

My eyes darted across the room, landing on the heavy, crystal whiskey decanter sitting on the mahogany bar cart just a few feet away.

I crept forward across the Persian rug like a ghost, my bare feet making zero sound against the thick wool. My fingers curled around the heavy crystal neck of the decanter. It was surprisingly heavy, filled halfway with amber liquor.

The guard suddenly turned around, sensing a change in the room’s air.

His eyes widened in shock as he saw me standing out of the chair, free. He swung his rifle barrel upward.

I didn't think. I swung the crystal decanter with every ounce of pent-up terror, fury, and maternal desperation I possessed.

Crash!

The heavy crystal shattered squarely against the side of the guard’s tactical helmet. Amber liquid and glittering glass shards exploded across the room. The man grunted, his eyes rolling back into his head before his knees buckled and he collapsed heavily onto the floor, completely unconscious.

I stood there, panting wildly, staring down at my bleeding hands and the fallen guard.

You survived, a voice inside my head whispered. Now go find your husband.

I snatched the Glock pistol from the guard’s tactical belt, its weight feeling entirely alien and terrifying in my palm. Remembering what Dorian had shown me once at a private shooting range years ago, I checked the slide, made sure the round was chambered, and flicked the safety off.

I slipped out of the study into the dark, labyrinthine hallway of the Moretti riverfront warehouse.

The air outside the room was thick with the smell of diesel fuel, river salt, and gunpowder. Through the high, reinforced wire-mesh windows along the upper walls, I could see orange flashes reflecting off the foggy night sky—explosions and gunfire echoing from the main shipping berths outside.

I crept toward the metal fire exit at the end of the corridor, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Every shadow looked like an enemy; every creak of the old metal building sounded like approaching footsteps.

As I reached for the push-bar of the fire door, the door swung open inward with sudden, brutal force.

I gasped, stumbling backward and raising the pistol with shaking hands, the barrel pointing straight at the chest of the man who had just stepped through.

The man froze, his hands instantly raising in surrender.

In the dim emergency light, I saw his face. It wasn't Julian. It wasn't one of Moretti’s thugs.