The silence after the gunshot downstairs was absolute. A vacuum that sucked the air from Kara's lungs. Her mother's scream, cut off mid-word "KARA! RU" echoed in the sudden, deafening stillness, far more horrifying than the noise that silenced it. It wasn't just a sound stopped; it was a life extinguished. Mamá.
Behind the heavy velvet curtain, Kara pressed herself harder against the cold glass balcony door, the rose quartz rosary clutched so tightly in her fist the beads felt like they might embed themselves in her skin. Her breath came in shallow, silent gasps, trapped behind clenched teeth. Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent, tracing paths through the dust that already coated her skin. The scent of cordite, sharp and acrid, drifted up from below, mingling sickeningly with the lingering sweetness of orange blossoms through the cracked balcony door. Death and spring.
Boots thudded heavily in the hallway outside her room. The man who'd searched her room moments before, his flashlight beam grazing the curtain where she hid, was shouting again, his voice rough with impatience and something else – frustration? Fear? "¡La vieja está muerta! ¡Pero la chica no está aquí! ¡Revisen el estudio! ¡El sótano! ¡Encuéntrenla!" *The old woman is dead! But the girl isn't here! Check the study! The basement! Find her!*
Abuela Rosa. Another piece of her world shattered. Kara squeezed her eyes shut, a silent sob racking her body. Dead. Both dead.
More footsteps pounded through the villa below, doors crashing open, furniture overturning. The invaders were methodical, brutal. Hunting. For her. The realization crystallized, cold and sharp as broken glass: they wouldn't stop until she was found. Until she was silenced like her mother. Like her grandmother.
A new sound cut through the chaos – a gurgling gasp, close, just outside her door. Then a heavy thud, like a sack of grain hitting the floor. The shouting man's voice cut off abruptly. A different kind of silence fell, thick and charged.
Kara held her breath, every nerve ending screaming. What was happening? Had they killed one of their own? A trap?
Then, the sound she dreaded most: the handle of her bedroom door turning. Slowly. Deliberately. The lock she'd turned earlier clicked softly. The door, already splintered around the lock from the earlier assault, creaked open.
Light from the hallway spilled into the moonlit room, outlining a tall, broad-shouldered figure in the doorway. Not the bulky shape of the man who'd searched earlier. This silhouette was leaner, more controlled. He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him, plunging the room back into near darkness, save for the sliver of light under the door and the moon filtering through the balcony curtains.
He didn't call out. Didn't sweep the room with a flashlight. He simply stood there, a shadow among shadows, utterly still, radiating a dangerous calm that felt more terrifying than the previous frenzy. Kara could feel his gaze scanning the room, methodical, relentless. It passed over the overturned chair, the scattered books, the open closet door… and lingered on the heavy curtains covering the balcony.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. *He knows. He knows I'm here.* The rosary beads dug painfully into her palm, a desperate anchor to reality. She braced herself for the curtain to be ripped aside, for the cold muzzle of a gun, for the end.
Instead, a low, gravelly voice cut through the darkness. Familiar, yet utterly changed by circumstance. Devoid of warmth, honed to a blade's edge. "Kara Kecent."
It wasn't a question. It was an identification. A claiming. The voice from the graveside. Dante Vázquez.
"Come out." The command was flat, absolute. "Now."
Terror warred with a dazed confusion. Dante? Her father's man? But why was he here? Was he with them? Had he betrayed them? Or… was he here *because* of the betrayal?
Kara didn't move. Couldn't move. Paralyzed by fear and the crushing weight of loss. Mamá. Abuela.
A sigh, sharp with impatience, hissed through the darkness. "If you want to live past the next five minutes, niña, you will come out from behind that curtain. Now."
The use of niña – little girl – sparked a flicker of defiance beneath the terror. She wasn't a little girl anymore. Not after tonight. Not after what she'd heard. Slowly, trembling violently, she pushed herself away from the glass. The velvet curtain rustled as she parted it just enough to peer out.
Dante stood near the foot of her bed, moonlight catching the sharp planes of his face, the pale scar tracing his temple. He was dressed in dark, functional clothes – not the formal suit from the funeral, but close-fitting trousers and a dark sweater that emphasized the lethal efficiency of his build. He held a sleek, black pistol loosely at his side, its barrel angled towards the floor. His eyes, the colour of flint under a stormy sky, locked onto hers. There was no pity there. No softness. Only a cold, assessing intensity, like a hawk sighting prey… or perhaps, a protector assessing a liability.
"Good," he said, his voice still low. "Move. Quietly. We're leaving."
"Leaving?" Kara's voice was a rasp, barely audible. "My mother… Abuela… they're…" The words choked her.
"Dead," Dante stated bluntly, no inflection. "And you will be too if we don't move. Now." He took a step towards her, his movements fluid, silent. "Is there anyone else in the house? Consuela?"
Kara shook her head mutely, fresh tears welling. Consuela… she hadn't heard the housekeeper since the shooting started.
"Then we go." He gestured sharply towards the door with the barrel of his gun. "Stay behind me. Do exactly as I say. Do not make a sound. Do you understand?"
Kara nodded, numb. Understanding was beyond her. Survival was an instinct, a thread she clung to. She stumbled out from behind the curtain, her legs weak. The black silk dress felt like a shroud.
Dante moved to the door, pressing his ear against the wood for a second before easing it open a crack. The hallway outside was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through a window at the far end. A dark shape lay sprawled near the top of the stairs – the man who had been shouting orders moments before. A dark stain spread beneath him on the pale marble. Kara looked away, bile rising in her throat.
Dante slipped into the hallway, a shadow merging with deeper shadows, his pistol held ready. He gestured for her to follow. Every step felt like walking on broken glass. The silence in the villa was profound, broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of the invaders still searching other parts of the house – a crash from the direction of her father's study, a shout from downstairs.
They reached the top of the grand staircase. Dante paused, scanning the entrance hall below. Kara's gaze was drawn inexorably downward, past the shattered remnants of the front door. Moonlight pooled on the marble floor near the terrace entrance, illuminating a crumpled shape draped in black silk.
Isabella.
Kara stopped dead, a strangled cry escaping her lips before she could stifle it. Her mother lay on her side, one arm outstretched, fingers curled as if reaching for something. Her dark hair fanned out around her head, obscuring her face. A dark, wet stain bloomed across her back, soaking the expensive fabric. The delicate lace mantilla she'd worn to the funeral lay discarded a few feet away, trampled.
The world tilted. Kara swayed, the rosary slipping from her numb fingers. It hit the marble step with a soft, crystalline *tink*, rolling down a few steps before coming to rest near the body of one of her father's guards – Rafael? – sprawled near the entrance.
Dante's hand clamped onto her upper arm like a steel vise, jerking her back. His voice was a harsh whisper inches from her ear. "Look away. Now. Or you freeze, and we both die. Move!"
He propelled her forward, down the stairs, keeping his body between her and the horrific tableau in the hallway. Kara stumbled, her eyes fixed on the rosary beads gleaming faintly on the step near her mother's hand. A piece of her father. A piece of… everything she'd lost. She tried to pull towards it, a desperate, irrational need.
Dante's grip tightened painfully. "Leave it!" he hissed, dragging her past the bodies, past the shattered glass of the terrace doors, and out into the cool night air of the garden.
The scent of jasmine and roses, usually so comforting, now felt cloying, suffocating. It couldn't mask the coppery tang of blood that seemed to hang in the air. Dante didn't pause. He pulled her across the manicured lawn towards the high rear wall of the property, away from the gravel driveway and the front gate where the attackers' vehicles must be parked.
Shouts erupted from inside the villa. "¡En el jardín! ¡Los vi!" In the garden! I saw them!
"Run!" Dante barked, shoving her towards the dense cover of a large bougainvillea cascading over the rear wall. He turned, raising his pistol, and fired twice in quick succession towards the terrace doors. Glass shattered again, and a cry of pain answered the shots.
Kara scrambled through the thorny vines, the silk of her dress tearing, thorns scraping her arms. Dante was right behind her, firing another shot over his shoulder before vaulting the wall with effortless grace. He landed on the other side, reaching back to grab her arm and haul her down onto the uneven cobblestones of a narrow, shadowed alleyway.
The transition was jarring. From the ordered, deadly silence of the villa garden to the grimy, pungent reality of a Seville backstreet. The alley stank of damp stone, overflowing garbage bins, and stale urine. Graffiti scarred the ancient walls. Distant sirens wailed, but they sounded impossibly far away, irrelevant.
"Keep moving!" Dante urged, pulling her to her feet. He didn't run headlong, but moved with swift, purposeful strides, keeping close to the walls, his head constantly swiveling, scanning rooftops, doorways, the alley mouths they passed. He held the pistol low against his thigh, ready. "Don't look back."
Kara ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her legs trembling with shock and exertion. The alley twisted and turned, opening onto slightly wider streets, then plunging back into darkness. They passed shuttered shops, the occasional dim light spilling from an upper window where someone might be peering down, then quickly drawing a curtain. Seville, the city of light and music, had become a labyrinth of shadows and fear.
They crossed a small, deserted plaza. A stray cat hissed and darted away. A flamenco guitar's mournful strains drifted faintly from a bar several streets over, a haunting counterpoint to the pounding of Kara's heart. Dante suddenly pulled her into a deep doorway, pressing her flat against the cold wood. He held a finger to his lips, his eyes fixed on the street they'd just crossed.
Headlights swept the entrance to the plaza. A dark sedan slowed, then cruised slowly past. Kara held her breath, pressing herself harder against the door. Dante remained statue-still, his gaze tracking the car until its taillights disappeared around a corner.
"Lorenzo's men," he murmured, his voice tight. "They'll have the main roads covered. We go through the old town. Stick to the shadows." He glanced down at her, his gaze flickering over her torn black dress, her scratched arms, her tear-streaked, dust-smeared face. "Can you keep up?"
Kara nodded, wiping her face with a shaking hand, smearing the grime. Her throat was raw, her body screamed for rest, but the image of her mother's outstretched hand, the glint of the rosary on the step, fueled a desperate energy. "Yes." The word was hoarse but clear.
They moved deeper into the Barrio de Santa Cruz, the historic Jewish quarter, its streets impossibly narrow, winding, and confusing even in daylight. At night, it was a maze of deep shadows cast by overhanging balconies, arches, and potted geraniums. Dante navigated it with unnerving certainty, pulling Kara down one twisting 'callejón' after another, pausing at intersections to listen, his senses attuned to dangers Kara couldn't perceive.
The shock began to recede, replaced by a chilling numbness that seeped into her bones. The frantic energy drained away, leaving her feeling hollowed out, a shell propelled forward only by Dante's iron grip and the primal urge to survive. Her father's funeral felt like a lifetime ago. The girl who loved poetry and flamenco felt like a stranger. That girl was buried with her mother tonight.
They emerged onto a slightly wider street, deserted save for a lone, ancient streetlamp casting a weak yellow pool of light. Across the street stood the imposing, shadowed bulk of the Cathedral, its Giralda tower reaching like a skeletal finger into the starless sky. Dante pulled Kara into the deep recess of a stone archway opposite.
"We rest here. For a minute," he said, his voice low. He leaned against the cold stone, scanning the street in both directions, his pistol held ready. His breathing was steady, controlled, betraying none of the exertion Kara felt. Only the tightness around his eyes, the grim set of his mouth, hinted at the strain.
Kara slid down the wall, landing hard on the uneven cobbles, her legs finally giving out. She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them tight, trying to contain the tremors that wracked her body. The numbness warred with the horrifying clarity of memory: the gunshots, the shouts, her mother's scream cut short, the sight of her body on the cold marble… Abuela Rosa… Rafael… The polished wood of her father's coffin lowered into the earth just hours before. It was too much. The dam broke.
Sobs tore through her, harsh, gasping sounds she couldn't suppress. She buried her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The grief, the terror, the utter desolation overwhelmed her. She was alone. Utterly alone in a world that had turned monstrous. "Mamá…" she choked out, the word a broken whisper. "Papá…"
Dante didn't move. Didn't offer comfort. He simply watched the street, his profile hard and unyielding in the dim light. When she finally lifted her head, her eyes swollen and raw, she found him looking down at her. His expression hadn't softened.
"Done?" he asked, his voice devoid of judgment, merely practical.
Kara wiped her face again, smearing tears and dirt. She took a shuddering breath, meeting his flinty gaze. The numbness was returning, colder now, harder. She nodded.
"Good." He pushed off the wall. "Crying gets you killed. Remember that." He extended a hand. It wasn't an offer of help, but a command. "Up. We have a long way to go before dawn."
Kara stared at his hand for a moment. The hand that had killed tonight. The hand that was her only lifeline. Slowly, she reached out and took it. His grip was strong, calloused, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. The coldness in his touch mirrored the ice settling in her own chest.
He turned, leading her back into the labyrinth of shadows, away from the weak pool of light, away from the ghostly cathedral. Kara followed, her steps more steady now, the tremors subsiding. As they melted into the darkness of another narrow alley, her hand instinctively went to her throat, searching for the cool comfort of the rose quartz beads.
Her fingers brushed bare skin.
The rosary was gone. Lost on the blood-stained steps of the villa, lying near her mother's outstretched hand. The last tangible piece of her father, of her old life, was gone.
All that remained was the gunpowder taste in her mouth, the phantom scent of blood and orange blossoms, and the cold, relentless presence of the man dragging her deeper into the night. Dante Vázquez. Her protector. Her jailer. The only thing standing between her and the men who had destroyed her world. Men led by a name she now remembered Dante hissing earlier, a name that carried the weight of a curse: *Lorenzo*. El Halcón. The Hawk who hunted her.