Dante almost stumbled forward, his feet refusing to take him to where Mila's body was.
But he forced them to move. It wasn't fast, it wasn't well coordinated. It was just one step in front of another.
Then another.
His leather shoes echoed on concrete, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the loading dock. The bodies around him didn't register, the weapons scattered across the floor didn't matter.
The men behind him—Marco, the soldiers, the witnesses—they ceased to exist.
The only thing that mattered to him, the only thing to register was Mila.
The twenty feet between them that felt like miles.
Was she breathing?
He couldn't tell from here, he couldn't see her chest rising, couldn't see any movement at all.
But what he could see was that her head was tilted at an angle that looked wrong—too relaxed, too loose.
How long has she been like this?
He shook his head. It didn't matter. What did was that he was there now.
And she was no longer alone.
