It happened in slow motion.
One moment, Clara was standing on the wet roof, her white dress plastered to her skin by the rain, looking like a vengeful angel.
The next, she was airborne.
She didn't push him. She clamped her hands onto his arm—the one holding the detonator—and threw her weight backward into the void.
Vittorio didn't scream. His face just went slack with disbelief. He looked at me one last time, his eyes wide, as the gravity took him.
"NO!" I shrieked.
I lunged forward, my hand grasping at the empty air where my sister had just stood.
They vanished over the edge of the stone parapet.
A second later, there was a sound I will never forget. Not a splash. Not a thud. But a sickening, wet crack as bodies hit the water—or the rocks—below.
Then, silence.
The bomb didn't go off. The detonator must have flown from his hand or shattered on impact. The roof of the mansion stood firm.
But my world had just collapsed.
"CLARA!"
