THE SWITCH FAIL

THE SWITCH FAIL


Layla's POV

The music was still going, some haunting classical piece that echoed through the air like a chant that wouldn't be broken. I kept twirling, kept moving in rhythm, but every step made my head spin. I was ill, dizzy to the point where I felt I might vomit all over the shiny floor. My mask was too tight, suffocating, but I didn't dare remove it. Not yet.

My dance partner—a boy I knew vaguely from Marcelo's crowd—was holding me tightly. Too tightly. His hand was firm on my back, his fingers clasped around mine like metal brackets. He wasn't leading me anymore; he was holding me in place, waiting for something. A signal, maybe? Or just the right moment to move?

Something, though, he knew. They all knew. And I was the only one who continued to dance like a puppet.

Marcelo was keeping something from me. That was certain. He always acted like he was in charge, but this felt bigger than a power struggle or a transaction. Something had occurred. Something that everyone decided to act like it did not.

I witnessed it—the switch.

The bit where I was supposed to spin and be swept away. But Marcelo had switched it. He'd spun me the other way, giving his double just enough time to take his place. I had no idea what came after that. But from the way my new partner was holding me, he was waiting for his cue to take me out. And then?

Chaos.

My gaze fixed on Marcelo across the room. He was by the grand staircase, still masked, but definitely him. His head snapped in a curt nod.

The guard acted immediately. Without speaking.

He put an arm around me and yanked me from the dance floor. No one gave much heed. Some of them half-turned to stare, then returned to their spinning, zombie-like dance. As if all was normal. As if I was not being bodily hauled from the property like a captive.

The cold night air slapped me in the face as we crashed through the ballroom doors. We weren't walking. We were running. I stumbled in my heels, tripped, but he did not slow down. He practically dragged me down the marble steps, down into the gravel path that made its way around to the back of the estate.

"What the hell is going on?!" I shouted.

"Keep moving."

That's all he said. No name. No explanation. Just keep moving.

We reached the black car idling at the side gate. I was pushed inside by the guard and he closed the door after me.

The driver sped off at once, tires screeching on the gravel as we sped away from the estate.

I looked back. No one was following us. Not yet. But that could change at any moment.

"Would someone please tell me what's going on?" I yelled.

The guard did not say anything. He just touched his ear. Earpiece.

"We got her," he said into it. "Marcelo's clear. We're heading to checkpoint B."

Then silence.

I sat back and pulled off my mask. My face was rubbed where the fabric had been.

I'd been played. Again. Whatever had happened in there, whatever the real deal was, Marcelo had not told me. On purpose.

Marcello's POV

It was done.

The briefcase felt heavy in my hand, the deal finalized, the money and documents transferred into the girl in the red mask who was now being spun off in the other direction. Everything had gone off as per the backup plan. I had made sure of it.

Layla was already gone inside. My guard had already taken her out the side door, just before the break of dawn realization would come to Morgan's men that they didn't have the Moretti heiress.

I adjusted my cufflinks and walked calmly towards the exit. No rush. No suspicion.

I navigated the hallway, past the statues and vases gold, past whispered conversations and laughter now appearing fake.

Outside, the air was cooler. The sky was the gray of wet asphalt, dark and cloud-streaked. The car was waiting.

I slipped into the backseat.

"Go," I said.

The driver nodded and moved off.

But we didn't get far.

Gunshots.

One. Then two. Then a burst.

"Shit," I swore.

I ducked low in the seat. "They know. They fucking know."

The car swerved hard to the right, and I slammed into the door.

"Careful!"

"They're behind us," the driver said.

Gunshots. Loud and sharp.

The rear windshield cracked. Then shattered.

"They spotted us," the driver snarled.

I was already on my burner phone, dialing Mike.

"Talk to me,"Mike answered.

"They took the bait, but they know. Layla's car is taking fire. I need eyes in the sky and back-up on ground."

"I'm on it."

I hung up and pulled out the pistol from beneath my jacket. Locked and loaded.

"Get me close to her car," I told the driver.

"That'll put us in the line of fire."

"I know."

The air cracked with gunfire just as the tires screamed against the gravel. I ducked behind the opened car door and barked out orders.

“Cover the rear! I want eyes on every rooftop!”

One of my men slid beside me, already returning fire toward the thick shadows moving in from the ballroom's side exit.

“Marcelo!” he shouted. “They were tipped off! The buyer’s men turned!”

Of course they did. The whole exchange reeked of a double-cross.

I could see the taillights of the car Layla was in disappearing down the narrow driveway. They had strict orders — do not stop for anything. If a bomb dropped, they were to drive straight through the flames with her inside. Her safety was non-negotiable.

I pulled out my Glock and fired three precise rounds toward the moving silhouettes attempting to flank us from the left. One went down. The other retreated.

“Push forward!” I yelled, slamming the door shut and sprinting toward the second car waiting at the side.

One of my men, Matteo, dropped beside me and started shooting from the hood. Bullets pinged off the metal, the metallic whines mixing with the thunder of chaos.

I leapt onto the hood and fired two more shots, one lodging into a sniper’s shoulder perched above the arch of the compound. I didn’t need to kill them. Just delay. That’s all I needed. Just time.

I clicked my earpiece.

“Bravo car, report. What’s Layla’s status?”

A crackling response.

“Ten seconds out of perimeter. We’re being followed—black Jeep, tinted windows, possible hostile—”

I didn’t wait for more.

“Engage defensive maneuvers. Lose them.”

“Yes, sir.”

My foot collided with the gravel as I dropped behind the wall, reloading quickly. Matteo cursed beside me as a bullet grazed his shoulder.

“Shit!” he hissed, gripping his arm.

“Hold tight,” I said, yanking him behind cover. I peeked out and fired at the black-masked man closing in. He fell like a puppet cut from strings.

The ball had devolved into a warzone.

Just behind me, another of my men, Dante, screamed through the comms. “They're swarming the south gate! Trying to trap us!”

I turned sharply. “Then we punch a hole through it.”

We had planned for this.

Not this exact outcome — but betrayal was always a currency in these kinds of exchanges. I just hadn’t expected them to act so fast. They wanted Layla. They knew who she was now. They must’ve figured it out. And that put her in even more danger.

I sprinted toward the second car — a matte black SUV outfitted with armor plating. I slid into the passenger seat and shouted at the driver.

“Follow Bravo car. Push them off her trail.”

The engine growled to life, and we reversed fast, knocking down one of the masked goons who had tried to plant a spike trap behind us.

“Go! Go!”

As we sped forward, I could still hear the stutter of gunfire behind us. But most of them were trying to follow Layla. That was the goal. To flush her out.

They thought they were clever.

They didn’t know how fucking far I was willing to go for her.

Layla’s POV

My chest was rising and falling so fast I could barely breathe. The car swerved through the wooded trail that led out of the estate, and I clutched the door handle so hard my fingers turned white.

“What the hell is happening?” I whispered, mostly to myself.

The driver was a bald man with a scar running across his cheek. He didn’t say a word. Eyes focused. Hands tight on the wheel.

I turned around in the back seat. Another man, younger, sat beside me with a rifle across his lap. He wasn’t looking at me.

“Where’s Marcello?” I asked, even though I already knew.

He was behind. Fighting. Shooting. Probably getting himself killed.

God, I didn’t want to care. But I did.

I closed my eyes and leaned back, trying to drown out the panic. My dress — the one he had given me — felt like it was strangling me now. All glitter and beauty, but suffocating in the worst ways.

The road was getting bumpier.

Then the younger guard cursed under his breath and pointed.

“Tail. Six o’clock. Closing fast.”

The driver looked in the mirror and floored the pedal.

I turned to see the dark Jeep closing in. My stomach dropped.

The man beside me rolled the window halfway down and lifted the rifle.

“Keep your head down,” he barked.

I did.

A second later, the shot exploded out of the barrel. Then another. Glass shattered behind us. More shots fired.

I covered my ears and screamed. But the car never slowed.

Another shot.

The Jeep swerved off the road, colliding with a tree.

We kept driving.

I was shaking all over.

My thoughts were jumbled, but one kept floating to the top like a corpse in the water.

Marcelo brought me here. Marcelo gave me that dress. Marcelo gave me hope and then ripped it away.

And yet…

He told me he wouldn’t let anyone hurt me.

So why did I believe him?

Marcelo’s POV

We met up with the Bravo car at the bridge, tires screeching. I slammed the door open and ran over as Layla was helped out of the backseat.

She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her hands were trembling. Her mascara was smudged. Her eyes — wide and glassy — met mine.

For a split second, she just stood there.

Then she walked straight up to me and slapped me.

Hard.

“You brought me there to die,” she spat.

I took it. The slap. The rage. The betrayal.

“I brought you there to save you,” I said quietly.

“You sold me.”

“I swapped you.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You used me.”

I didn’t say anything.

Because she was right.

But not the way she thought.

“I had to,” I murmured. “It was either that or they would’ve taken you from me for real.”

The sound of sirens echoed far off. Reinforcements were coming. The rest of my men would make it out. Or they wouldn’t.

But I had her. And I wouldn’t let her go again.