But the lights were not blue and red.

They were solid, blinding white searchlights.

A heavy hum shook the ground beneath our feet.

It was not just police cars.

A large, unmarked black van turned the corner of the driveway, its tires screeching on the wet asphalt.

The van did not slow down for the barrier.

It came barreling toward the closed iron gates.

“Vincent,” I said, grabbing his arm.

“Who is that?”

Vincent did not answer me.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his firearm, his thumb flicking the safety off with a sharp click.

“Get inside, Clara,” Vincent commanded.

Gianna grabbed my shoulder, pulling me back toward the safety of the villa.

Behind us, the black van crashed directly into the iron gates, the metal screaming as it twisted inward.

The headlights of the van illuminated all of us in a harsh, white glare.

The side door of the van began to slide open.

Gianna’s grip on my arm was tight, her fingers digging through the fabric of my sleeve.

I stumbled backward on the wet stone path, my eyes locked on the sliding door of the black van.