The alley stretched ahead, slick with rain and lit in fractured neon from the nightclub’s glowing sign. Jaxon’s grip was iron around my hand as we tore through the shadows, my boots slipping on wet pavement.

Behind us, the thundering of boots multiplied at least five, maybe six. Shouts in Italian cut through the night, sharp and angry.

“They’re gaining!” I hissed, glancing over my shoulder.

“Don’t look back,” Jaxon growled, his voice all grit and command. “Eyes on me. ...