Page 52 of Blood Heir

I whirl around, eyes scanning Monte’s closet like a cornered animal searching for any escape. My pulse pounds in my ears. And then—there.

I yank open the second drawer, nearly ripping it off its tracks. Inside, rows of identical white bottles glisten under the dim light, each perfectly labeled: Vitamin A.

My fingers scramble, pulling one free. My breathing is so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts.

Switch them. Switch them now.

With trembling hands, I peel the labels off both bottles, my fingertips slipping against the adhesive. My nerves threaten to send everything crashing to the floor, but somehow, I manage to slap the Vitamin A label onto the memory suppressant bottle.

Then I shove the real pills deep into the drawer, burying them beneath stacks of folded t-shirts and old watches, like stuffing away a crime scene.

The fake bottle—now labeled Vitamin A—goes back onto the bedside table, perfectly innocent.

I take one final breath, gripping the edge of the drawer to steady my spinning head. My mouth tastes like metal. My skin’s clammy.

If Monte finds out what I just did, I’m dead. Not mafia dead. Dead dead.

And yet—my legs move before my mind can stop them.

I bolt.

Down the hall, through the door, across the corridor, heels clicking against marble like the frantic ticks of a time bomb. I burst through the front door and stumble into the daylight, chest tight.

And there they are.

Monte. Gustavo. Fioretta.

My stomach drops as I spot the scene unfolding—Monte’s men surrounding Fioretta, closing in like vultures. She’s fighting, of course she is—thrashing her arms, twisting against their grip, her voice sharp and full of rage.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” she spits, kicking out at one of the guards, who narrowly avoids her heel.

Monte stands there with that godawful smirk plastered across his face, like a wolf admiring his trapped prey.

I freeze for half a second. My pulse spikes so violently that it makes my ears ring. Then I run.

I sprint over and grab Fioretta’s wrist, tugging at her with every ounce of strength left.

“Let’s go,” I hiss urgently. “Now.”

Fioretta looks at me, panting, confused. “What the hell is going on, Emilia? What are you doing?!”

“Oh, what’s the rush?” Monte’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade dipped in honey. His fingers twitch subtly, signaling his men.

Two guards seize Fioretta by both arms, yanking her away from me. She kicks, curses, her sunglasses flying off as she twists in their hold. Her wild hazel eyes flash with rage, the sun catching the gold flecks that make them almost glow.

“Let me go, you psychopaths!” she shrieks.

Monte strolls toward me, casual as always. His eyes gleam with sick amusement.

“You can go, Emilia,” he says softly, almost like he’s offering me a choice. “Or you can stay and watch. Don’t make me ask them to get you, too.”

My breath catches again. I’m cornered. My throat tightens as I feel the weight of his threat sink into my skin.

If I leave, I’m safe. If I stay, I’m a witness. And witnesses don’t always live long.

But Fioretta’s eyes meet mine, wide and panicked.

I swallow hard, forcing my face into something resembling calm.

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