Devil’s Lily: Chapter 26

I wake up to Marco shaking me like my life depends on it—and judging by the tension radiating off him, it probably does.

“What is it?” I grumble, groggy and irritated as I sit up, wiping at my eyes.

“I need to get you to safety. Follow me.” There’s something in Marco’s voice I’ve never heard before—a tightness that sends ice water through my veins. The man who usually maintains perfect composure sounds like he’s barely holding it together.

I swing my legs off the bed, forcing my body to move despite the lingering heaviness of interrupted sleep.

“What’s going on?” I ask, watching as his eyes keep darting to the bedroom door like he’s expecting it to burst open any second. Something is very, very wrong.

“We’re under attack.” The words are barely more than a mutter, but they fall like lead weights in my stomach. My heart does a violent somersault, and suddenly I’m wide awake.

“What? By who?” Please don’t let it be who I think it is. Please, please, please.

“We need to get you to safety,” he repeats the words mechanically, deliberately ignoring my question as he turns his back to me. I expect him to lead me out of the room, but he makes a beeline for the double doors I’ve discovered are Maximo’s walk-in closet. What is he doing? I think, following him with confused, stumbling steps. Shouldn’t we be heading for the exit?

The closet lights flicker on automatically as we enter, casting a soft glow over Maximo’s obscenely expensive wardrobe. While I’m still trying to process why we’re playing dress-up during an attack, Marco moves with purpose towards the large glass display where all of Maximo’s ties are laid out in a neat row. I watch baffled, as he starts pulling them out one by one. Has he lost his mind?

One tie, two ties, three… As he reaches for the fourth, the material snags, something holding it back. A metallic click breaks the silence, and I nearly jump out of my skin as the wall begins to move. The actual wall. Moving.

Holy shit, this is some Batman-level secret passage stuff.

I stand there gaping like an idiot while Marco shoves the ties back haphazardly and grabs my arm, practically dragging me through the opening.

As soon as we’re inside the dark, secret room, motion sensors trigger overhead lights, brightening the space.

“Stay here. Do not come out until I come to get you,” Marco orders urgently as he lets go of my arm. He waits until I nod my acquiescence before he walks out of the room, the doors sliding shut quietly behind him.

Now alone, my curiosity gets the better of my fear. I glance around the room in fascination.

I know what a panic room is—we have one back at Atë’s compound, and I used to go through drills every few months to learn how to get there in case of an emergency when my guards couldn’t reach me. But where Atë’s panic room was an old, musty space in our basement, this one is modern and, despite the lack of windows, feels surprisingly airy.

The walls and floor are dark and tastefully decorated. A swanky, cream L-shaped couch rests against the wall, accompanied by a gleaming glass side table and an art deco lamp. Above it all, a large gold-framed black and white Lily of the Valley print hangs against the wall.

As I walk down the small steps into the room itself, my fingers trail along the seamless walls. When my hand catches on a barely-there handle, my heart skips. Another secret? I pull it open and—whoa.

It is! Another hidden door slides open.

Inside looks like an armory.

Guns of every size and shape imaginable line the walls. Rifles. Pistols, you name it. Even hand grenades, along with enough tactical gear to outfit a small army. I shut that door quickly, positive I wasn’t meant to discover that.

My gaze darts around the room again, landing on a large standing fridge on the other side, but I ignore it. Now that I know there are hidden doors, I can’t help but look for more. It’s better than sitting here wondering if people are dying outside. So, I slide my hand along the walls again until—there! Another handle. Another door. I was right.

This time, the door opens to reveal a room lined with computers. The screens are facing the other way so I can only see the back and the wires running around on the floor. I enter the room and circle around until I can see the dark screens.

My heart pounds as I stare at them, curiosity and dread filling me. This is probably a monitor room and the computers are most likely connected to the cameras in the apartment. I shouldn’t, I think, even as my hand reaches for the power button. I really shouldn’t. But I do.

The screens spring to life, and sure enough, immediately open to multiple camera feeds from around the apartment. No password required. Because who’s going to break into a secret room hidden in another secret room, all concealed behind a billionaire’s tie collection? Well, except for me.

A bright light catches my eye from the corner of one of the screens. It’s the hallway outside the apartment where the elevator is located. It quickly becomes clear that the bright light was from a gunshot. Multiple gunshots follow.

I gulp as I lean forward and try to zoom in on that screen. The hallway outside is a war zone. Gunfire flashes, bodies hitting the floor on both sides of a brutal firefight. Maximo’s men are desperately defending the apartment door, but the attackers are relentless, slowly gaining ground with every shot fired.

I watch in horror as more of Maximo’s men collapse. These aren’t just faceless soldiers—they’re men I’ve baked for, played games with, laughed with… and now they’re falling one by one, their lives snuffed out right in front of me.

Shit, shit, shit.

The gravity of the situation hits me as I take it all in. My heart sinks with dread, and I raise my hand to gnaw at my nails—an old nervous habit I thought I’d outgrown. Now I understand why Marco ushered me into this panic room so quickly. This isn’t just an attack. It’s an outright slaughter.

I drag my hand away from my mouth and press it flat against my thigh, forcing myself to think. Marco said to stay put, but how the hell am I supposed to do that knowing what’s happening out there?

What if they somehow get in here?

What if…

No. I can’t think like that. I have to stay calm. I have to⁠—

Then I see him.

The man in the middle. On the enemy side. He’s wearing dark tactical gear, his head and face covered by a balaclava mask, but something about the way he moves and shoots his gun strikes a nerve. A horrible, gut-deep familiarity. As he glances back at another man—a broader, thicker-set man—the edge of his balaclava shifts, revealing a glint of red hair. Red Hair. My breath catches. No, it can’t be. He yanks the mask back in place, but it’s too late—I’ve already caught sight of the tiny dark ink on the inside of his wrist.

“Jesus, no,” I whisper, horrified as my brain tries to compute what I’m seeing. Roan. Oh no. Oh no. My brother is out there killing Maximo’s men. Which means…

I’m running before I can finish the thought, bursting out of the panic room, through the closet, down the hallway. My bare feet slap against the floor as I take the stairs two at a time. I have to stop him. I need to stop him before even more people die needlessly.

The scene that greets me when I burst through the front door is absolute mayhem. My ears ring from the deafening gunfire ricocheting in the small, enclosed area, and my nose wrinkles at the choking stench of gunpowder, sweat, and blood. Marco’s eyes find mine, and the look of pure terror on his face would be almost funny if this wasn’t so deadly serious.

“Go back in,” he mouths desperately, careful not to draw attention to me as he subtly tries to shoo me back into the house. But I ignore him. My focus locks on the enemy line ahead.

“Stop shooting!” I shout, but my voice is lost over the loud gunshots.

A bullet whizzes past me, so close it ruffles my hair, and my heart leaps into my throat. Time seems to slow as I watch it pierce through Marco’s stomach. “No. Marco!” He staggers back into the wall, clutching at the blooming red stain spreading beneath his shirt, but even then, his grip on the gun stays firm. Gritting his teeth, he steadies himself and continues shooting.

Determination surges through me like wildfire, burning away the shock. Pressing myself against the wall, I inch along its surface to the other side as I scream Roan’s name at the top of my lungs. “Roan! Roan!” Over and over, until my throat hurts.

Nothing.

As I walk, my toes connect with something—a discarded pistol. Yes. Careful to keep out of the line of fire, I go down to pick it up. My fingers tremble as I check the chamber. One bullet left. Please let this work.

I aim at the ceiling and fire. The shot rings out like a thunderclap in the enclosed space, drawing every eye in the room. And finally, finally, Roan turns. Our eyes meet across the battlefield, and I see the exact moment he recognizes me. His body freezes, his gun faltering mid-aim. But it’s too late. His trigger finger is already squeezing, his body operating on pure muscle memory.

The bullet pierces through my arm, and the pistol slips out of my hand, clattering to the floor as I slam back into the wall. I gasp, tears stinging my eyes as indescribable pain explodes through my body in white-hot waves. Blood—my blood—is everywhere, soaking through my sleeve, running down my arm in sticky rivers. So much blood. Too much blood.

“Lira!” Roan’s anguished roar seems to come from very far away, and everything suddenly quiets down as the room collectively takes a deep breath. Through vision that’s starting to blur at the edges, I see another figure running towards me, pulling off his balaclava mask. Atë. And he looks like he might have a heart attack.

His blood pressure… he shouldn’t be here… he can’t handle this kind of stress…

My knees buckle, and as I start to slide down the wall, Roan catches me, pulling me into him with one hand and ripping off his own mask with the other. I wince as the movement jostles me, sending more pain through me.

“Lira, fuck. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he chants over and over, pressing his mask hard against my wound to stem the bleeding. Atë falls to his knees beside us, his face almost as pale as mine must be, and I wince again.

“Ca–careful… Atë,” I manage to rasp. I want to say more—to tell him to calm down, to breathe, to watch his heart—but the words won’t come.

Then, everything changes.

The air suddenly grows heavy, charged with a new kind of tension, and my gaze shifts beyond my father, beyond his men, to the elevator sliding open and Maximo stepping out, looking murderous as hell.

Oh no.