Camilla’s POV

“Yes,” I replied. “It was in my purse.”

“By tomorrow, we will return to the clubhouse to search for the ID,” Emma said. “The FBI must have raided the building by now.”

“What if it’s not there anymore?” I asked worriedly.

“If it’s not there, we’ll report your missing ID card to the police,” Emma assured me.

I shut the door, returned to my bed, and lay down. The ceiling stared back at me, but my mind wasn’t anywhere near the four walls of my room. I couldn’t shake the memory of what happened in the club. The music, the lights, the chaos — but most vividly, the man. The one who took the bullet for me.

Why would anyone do that? For a stranger?

“Camilla?” Emma’s voice filtered in from the other room, pulling me from my thoughts.

I blinked, realizing I hadn’t said a word in over an hour. “Yeah?” I called back.

“You okay?” she asked, walking into the room holding two mugs of hot chocolate. She handed me one.

“I’m trying to be,” I replied softly, my fingers warming around the cup. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“I know,” she said, sitting beside me on the bed. “But we’ll get answers. First, we’ll try the clubhouse again. The FBI might have cleared it by now, though.”

I nodded, though my stomach knotted with anxiety. What if the ID card was gone? What if—

“We’ll figure it out, Cam,” Emma said as if reading my mind.

---

The next morning arrived faster than I anticipated. I hadn’t slept much, tossing and turning through the night, hoping against all odds that my ID card would be found and nothing worse would come out of the incident.

Emma was already dressed when I got out of the bathroom.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice unusually calm for someone who was also at that chaotic club last night.

I nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

—

The drive to the club was tense and silent. As we got closer, our stomachs turned when we saw black SUVs and FBI agents swarming the place like hornets around a nest. Yellow tape cordoned off the building, and the air reeked of smoke and something else, something metallic. Blood, maybe.

“We shouldn’t have come,” I murmured, slowing my steps.

Emma squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Let’s just tell them the truth. You left your ID. That’s it.”

An agent in a suit stepped in front of us, holding out a badge. “This area is restricted. FBI. Can I help you ladies?”

“I think I left my ID card inside the club last night,” I said, nervously fidgeting with the hem of my jacket. “We were here when the shooting happened.”

His expression darkened just slightly. “Names?”

“Camilla Bianchi and Emma Houston,” Emma replied quickly.

The agent motioned for us to step aside. “One moment.”

Soon, a tall man in his forties with silver-streaked hair and piercing eyes joined us. He introduced himself as Detective Samuel Briggs. He pulled out a small photo from a file and held it up.

“Did either of you see this man last night?”

The man in the photo had sharp cheekbones, stubble lining his jaw, and unmistakably pretty grey eyes. Cold, irresistible and unreadable.

Emma and I exchanged a glance.

“No,” we said in unison. It wasn’t a lie. We weren’t sure. Too many faces. Too much blood.

Detective Briggs narrowed his eyes but nodded, handing me a business card. “If you do, call me immediately. He’s wanted for multiple charges. He’s extremely dangerous. Do not approach him.”

Emma took the card as well. “Understood.”

After a brief search through the outside perimeter with the agent’s permission, we found nothing. No ID.

“I guess I won’t be writing the exam,” I said, slumping beside Emma.

Before she could respond, her phone buzzed. She opened the message, and her eyes lit up like stars.

“Oh my God!” she gasped. “Camilla, it’s from The Marisol Foundation for Young Talents — you remember, the modeling audition I did months ago?”

I straightened. “Yeah, the one in the city?”

“They picked me! I got in!” Emma squealed, grabbing my hands. “They want me to come for a three-day shoot and orientation in Chicago. Cam, this is it. My big break.”

My heart swelled for her. “Emma, that’s incredible! You deserve this.”

“I don’t want to leave you with all this—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Go. I’ll be fine. You’ve worked so hard. Don’t miss this.”

She hugged me tightly. “Promise me you’ll be safe?”

I laughed lightly. “I promise.”

Later that day, I dragged myself into the clinic. The scent of disinfectant and the sound of beeping machines welcomed me like an old friend.

“Morning, Camilla,” said Nurse Jennie.

“Morning,” I replied, tying up my hair and slipping into my white coat.

My first patient was a sweet elderly man with arthritis. We chatted lightly as I took his vitals.

“Young people like you give me hope, dear,” he smiled. “Smart, kind, and pretty. Your future is bright.”

I chuckled. “Thank you, Mr. Morrison. That means a lot.”

Just as I scribbled notes in his file, the clinic doors slammed open with a force that startled everyone.

A man stomped in — tall, broad-shouldered, with a smooth beard and piercing eyes.

“Camilla Bianchi?” he barked.

I froze. “Y-Yes?”

He walked straight to me and shoved a familiar object into my hands.

My ID card.

My breath caught in my throat. “Where did you find this?”

“You dropped it. Outside the club.” His voice was flat.

Relief washed over me. “Yes, it’s mine. Thank you so much—”

“I need to speak to you. Outside. Now,” he cut in.

I blinked, confused, but followed him to the parking lot.

As soon as we were out of sight, he turned and pulled out a gun.

“Don’t scream. Don’t make a scene. Go back inside and tell them you have an emergency. Say you won’t be back for a few days. Then you follow me. Understand?”

My mouth went dry. My knees trembled. “W-What? Why are you—”

He cocked the gun slightly. “Now, Camilla.”

I knew better than to argue. For the safety of everyone inside, I nodded.

I returned to the clinic and told Nurse Jennie I had to leave. Something urgent had come up. She didn’t question me.

Minutes later, I slid into the backseat of the stranger’s black SUV.

“Where are we going? Who are you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He looked at me through the rearview mirror. “I’ll be the one asking the questions.”

I clenched my jaw.

He glanced at me again. “According to your ID, you’re a second-year med student and a clinical assistant. I did some research. You’re smart. Disciplined. And you keep to yourself. But I want to know. Can you take out a bullet?”

I shook my head. “No. I mean, I’ve assisted in procedures, but I’m not qualified—”

“Would you do anything for Nana Beatrice?”

My heart stopped.

“How do you know that name?” I asked in a whisper.

He didn’t respond.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” I asked, panic rising. “Stop the car. I’ll call the police—”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You might want to see this first.”

He handed me a phone. A video played.

My grandmother, Nana Beatrice, lay in her hospital bed. Three men in black surrounded her. One of them pointed something at the security camera.

“No,” I gasped, tears welling in my eyes.

“Now do you understand?” he asked coolly.

“Why her?” I choked out. “What does she have to do with this?”

“Her life depends on your cooperation. So, I’ll ask one more time, Camilla.”

He slowed the car slightly, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

“Can you take out a bullet?”