Convoy AttackChaos swallowed the Sicilian night.The second explosion ripped through the eastern wing of the villa, sending plaster dust raining down like ash. Elena crouched in the walk-in closet, heart thundering so violently she could taste copper. Gunfire cracked outside, sharp, relentless. Shouts in Italian and English cut through the darkness as Sandro’s men engaged the attackers.“Stay behind me,” Sandro ordered, voice steel. He had pulled on a bulletproof vest over his bare chest and pressed a compact pistol into her trembling hands. “If anyone gets past me, you shoot first and ask questions later. Aim for center mass.”Elena nodded, fingers white-knuckled around the grip. The weight of the gun felt foreign and terrifying, but so did the alternative. Minutes ago they had been tangled together in desperate reconciliation. Now survival was the only language left.Sandro cracked the bedroom door, scanning the hallway. A guard’s body lay crumpled near the stairs, loyal blood alre
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