Chapter 4 NIGHT TERRORS

The apple lies in pieces on the training room floor.

I've been throwing knives for three hours. My fingers ache. My palms sting with fresh blisters. But the dummy's chest is now littered with shaky knife marks. Progress.

The door creaks open. I spin, blade raised.

Mira freezes, her dark eyes widening at the sight of me-hair wild, sweat dripping down my neck, surrounded by weapons. "Christ, child. You look like a feral cat."

I lower the knife. "Asher says I throw like a drunk squirrel."

She snorts, setting down a tray with a sandwich and milk. "Eat. Before you collapse."

The first bite of turkey nearly makes me moan. At the orphanage, meat was a rumor. "Why are you nice to me?"

Mira's smile falters. "Because no one else will."

A scream echoes from upstairs. Not pain-rage. Asher's voice, muffled but unmistakable: "*You incompetent-*" followed by a crash.

Mira pales. "Finish your food. Quickly."

I take another bite, listening as more shouts filter down. "...border crossing...", "...twenty kilos missing...", "...find them or I'll skin you alive."

The sandwich turns to ash in my mouth.

Mira whisks the tray away. "Bedtime."

She leads me upstairs, past Asher's office where two men kneel on broken glass. Blood drips onto the Persian rug. Asher stands over them, a gun in one hand, my abandoned knife in the other.

Our eyes meet through the doorway.

His rage flickers-just for a second-into something else. Then the door slams shut.

My bedroom feels smaller tonight. The shadows stretch longer. Every creak of the house sounds like footsteps.

I count the bars on my window. -One. Two. Three.

The nightmare comes like always:

*Anna's laughter. The closet door slamming. The smell of urine and mold. Then hands-too many hands-dragging me into the-*

I wake gasping.

Asher sits on the edge of my bed. Moonlight glints off the gun in his lap.

"Bad dream?" he asks, like we're discussing the weather.

I nod, my throat too tight for words.

He reaches out. I flinch. But his fingers just brush away the sweat-damp hair stuck to my forehead. "The Italians took something of mine," he murmurs. "I have to go handle it."

A car engine rumbles outside. Headlights paint the walls.

"You'll be safe here," he continues. "Mira has orders. There are twelve armed men on the property."

I clutch the blanket. "How long?"

His jaw tightens. "Long enough for you to master that knife throw." A weak joke. Uncharacteristic.

The front door slams. Engines roar.

Asher stands. Hesitates. Then pulls something from his pocket-a small black switchblade. "For emergencies," he says, pressing it into my palm.

I stare at it. "You're giving me a weapon?"

His smile is all teeth. "I'm giving you *another* weapon."

Then he's gone.

The house breathes differently without him.

I creep downstairs at 3 AM, the switchblade burning a hole in my pajama pocket. The training room is dark, but the dummy still bears the marks of our lesson.

THUNK.

My throw goes wide. The knife clatters to the floor.

"Pathetic."

I whirl. A boy leans in the doorway-maybe sixteen, with Asher's sharp cheekbones but none of his control. His knuckles are bruised. His lip split.

"You're Nikolai," I say, remembering Mira's warnings. *Asher's nephew. Trouble.*

He saunters forward, picking up my fallen knife. "And you're the stray he dragged home." With a flick of his wrist, he sends the blade spinning into the dummy's throat. "Uncle's losing his touch."

The switchblade feels heavy in my pocket. "He said I could stab you if you bothered me."

Nikolai barks a laugh. "Did he?" He steps closer. Too close. "Funny. He told *me* the same thing about you."

We stare at each other in the dim light. His eyes drop to my pocket. He knows.

A phone rings upstairs.

Nikolai's smirk fades. He grabs my wrist-not rough, but firm. "Listen carefully, orphan. When the fighting starts-"

Gunfire erupts outside.

Shattering glass. Screams. The staccato pop of automatic weapons.

Nikolai swears, shoving me toward the door. "Go! Hide in the-"

The window explodes.

Something hot grazes my arm. Nikolai yanks me down as bullets chew the wall above us.

"Change of plan," he hisses, blood dripping from his temple. "Follow my lead."

The switchblade snaps open in my hand.

Somewhere in the chaos, I hear Asher's voice roaring my name.

But the Italians are already inside.