There was no safe.

Or at least there had been.

I ran shaking fingers over the obvious patch in the wall in disbelief. It had been my only chance. Leaning forward, I touched my sweaty forehead to the lump in the wall and rolled my head back and forth.

Three years…

I waited too long.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d stayed in that position until my watch beeped again. Slowly, I lifted my head from the wall and stepped down.

I should have left. Instead, I reset my watch and then stared down at the painting of my godfather. The piece didn’t seem to suffer any trauma from the fall.

Art stared back at me with an expression carved in stone. He might have been a ruthless criminal, but he had always been good to me. After five generations of bandits, it ended with him.

“It’s all over, godfather.”

His dark brown eyes stared back at me almost as if he were challenging my claim. I suppose a man like him would defy anything that wasn’t to his liking.

Just like your son.

Hisson.

Arturo Knight was as powerful as he was dangerous but his son…

My legs trembled.

…his son was a dark replica of the man my father murdered.

Their legacy wouldn’t have died with Arturo.

Angel would never let it.

“Oh, God.” My gaze was pulled away from the painting until it found another. The last one in succession.

Thesixth.

The floodgates opened.

So many memories I couldn’t keep suppressed any longer drowned me. The same man trapped in the painting stood between those gates with his arms outstretched and his strong hands holding them open.

Keepingthem open.

My body jerked, and I found myself clutching the back of the chair and dragging it over.

It had to be.

I launched myself on top of the chair, and with strength I hadn’t possessed before, I lifted the painting. Staring back at me was black metal about a foot wide and high. A keypad was centered to the right of the handle.

After setting the painting down and recalling the combination from memory, I said a quick prayer for it to work. I reopened my eyes and positioned my index to key in the first number.

That’s when I heard it.

The faraway sound of a door closing.

I was no longer in this house alone. Art may have been dead, but Angel was not, and the reality of how much trouble I was in slammed against my chest from the inside.

It was too late to pretend I wasn’t here.

So, I did the next best thing.

Slipping from the study, I ran to the main hallway and stayed close to the wall. There were three bedrooms I could hide in on the east wing but the balcony poised over the foyer would expose me. I should have been running for the exit, but even a rookie such as me knew it was the most likely avenue to get caught.

With careful steps, I slid along the wall, deeper into the west wing. Another set of doors like the master suite on the east wing was up ahead.

Fuck it.

I threw open the door and slipped inside. Looking around, it appeared to be just another guest room. This room, however, had small pieces of life to it, though not as much as the master suite.

This must have been Angel’s room…

“I’ll take the west wing,” I heard a hard voice call out.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I was trapped, and from context, I gathered he wasn’t alone. I didn’t recognize the voice, which meant my childhood crush turned worst nightmare wasn’t the one hunting me. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, I knew the owner of the voice would catch me at any moment.

Hide.

I analyzed each potential hiding spot and acknowledged each as worse than the last…

Heavy footsteps drew closer.

Time had run out.

Since the closet was the likeliest place a person would hide, I chose the bed and wiggled my way under it with little effort. I guess being petite had its advantages after all.

Breathing became impossible when the shadow of the person’s feet stopped outside the door.

Maybe he could smell fear…

I wanted to shut my eyes,but I was more afraid of not knowing when my doom would happen.

The bedroom door opened.

The boots stepped inside.

I was no longer alone.

He waited, and I prayed.

Suddenly, his feet turned. He headed toward the closet. I listened as the door was snatched open and items were tossed aside as he tried to uncover my hiding spot. When it was clear no one hid among the cargo and dark jeans Angel had favored when we were kids, he moved to the bathroom. Finding nothing, he made his way to the side of the bed and stopped.

I closed my eyes for self-preservation, but it was too late. The stranger’s voice disrupted the silence.

“Come out. Come out. Wherever you are.”

I didn’t come out.

After a moment, his heavy footsteps plagued my ears once again. He must have discarded the possibility that an intruder would hide under the bed since most people stopped thinking it was a good hiding place after age ten.