THE DEVILS'S COLLATERAL

Blood.
It's everywhere.
Through the narrowing slits of my vision, red floods the world. Too much of it. The air reeks of gunpowder and iron. Shots explode in every direction, deafening, merciless. Someone slams into me hard. I don't know if it's to save me or sacrifice me. One second I am enjoying a quite cup of coffee and the next I am being pushed around.
As a result, I bang my head right into the glass table which is scattered around me now, with sharp shards lying everywhere
I wait for pain.
It doesn't come.
Maybe fear has swallowed it whole. Maybe adrenaline is a kinder executioner.
This chaos isn't unfamiliar. I've lived my entire life in its shadow. But I was never meant to bleed in it.
I drag myself forward, palms scraping against broken glass, aiming for the nearest overturned table. Shelter. Cover. Survival.
Instead, I crawl into a wall of black leather and blood.
Heavy boots. Splattered red. Immovable.
My gaze climbs upward and upward until I find him. A giant. Six foot ten at least. Cold eyes. No hesitation.
He presses a finger to his earpiece.
"Boss, we've found the Moroni bitch."
The word slices deeper than the glass.
So this is it.
Father's enemies.
They didn't come to negotiate.
They came to collect.
If they think I'm leverage, they're fools. My father doesn't trade what he considers disposable.
The last thing I feel is his grip in my hair, dragging me upright.
The last thing I hear is the van door slamming shut.
Then darkness claims what's left of me.