Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Maya
The corridor beyond the stage is narrower than the one they brought me through, with utility lights and concrete floors, and none of the expensive lies from the front room.
The air smells like bleach, dust, and panic.
Somewhere ahead, footsteps pound away from the raid.
Somewhere behind me, an agent shouts for everyone to get on the ground.
I keep moving.
My wrist is bleeding where the zip tie cut too deeply.
My knees ache from the stage. My heart is steady.
I pass one open room. Check it, empty. Another.
Storage. The third though tells an entirely different story.
Inside, there are two chairs, a table, a half-eaten sandwich, and a child’s hair ribbon on the floor.
My chest tightens. I was right, they were here.
I bend, snatching up a small pink hair ribbon — Erin — squeezing it tight in my palm. Erin and Heath were here. My fingers curl so hard my nails press into my palm, threatening to tear my skin. They were here. They were just here.
A door slams somewhere further down the hall; the sound jerks me into action. I run. The corridor turns twice before it opens toward a service exit. The sounds are different here. Less gunfire. More engine noise. Wind. The thump of rotor blades starting up outside.
No.
I reach the last bend and stop short, long enough to look around the corner cautiously.
Running in blindly gets people killed, and I have not come this far to be stupid when I’ve got them in reach.
Through the wired glass window in the exit door, I see the back drive flooded with harsh white light.
A black helicopter waits beyond the service lane, blades beginning to turn.
Two men move toward it with purpose. One of them is carrying a bag.
The other has his hands on the shoulders of two children. Erin and Heath.
For one second, the whole world narrows to them. Erin’s hair is loose around her face. Heath is walking rigidly beside her, his small body angled toward his sister like he can make himself larger by force of will alone. They are alive. And they are right there.
I reach for the door, but as my hand touches the handle, I recognize the man guiding them. The close-cropped hair. The hard jawline. It’s the same man who was whispering in Stefano Savarese’s ear.
Omar. The name comes from deep in my memory. From files read in midnight hours, and photographs from various agencies. Omar Strada. Capo. Stefano’s right hand. Loyal enough to be dangerous. Intelligent enough to be a problem.
He opens the helicopter door as I push through the exit door.
The cold night air hits my face, damp and sharp after the heat of the auction room. The gun solid in my hand. The cut on my wrist pulses. Attention drawn by my movement, Omar looks back, and our eyes meet.
He knows immediately that I am not what I was advertised as, and I see the calculation happen in real time. The children first. Threat second. Escape route third.
Smart. I hate smart men when they are between me and my target.
“Federal agent,” I shout, raising the gun and locking in on him through the sight. Sometimes the truth is a weapon even when it arrives late. “Step away from the children.”
Erin flinches. Heath turns his head. Omar’s hand moves beneath his jacket.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warn.
He pauses. No fear reflected in his expression, simply an assessment.
The helicopter blades beat harder, whipping my hair across my face, tearing sound apart before it can fully form.
Behind me, the building continues to erupt into shouted commands and broken glass.
In front of me, two children stand six yards away from disappearing again.
Six yards.
That is all.
I start forward.
One step.
Two.
Omar’s gaze shifts past me. And I know before the metal touches my temple that I’ve let my guard slip and caught it too late.
The gun presses cold against the side of my head, just above the cheekbone.
I swallow hard, twisting my hands in defeat, I refuse to drop the gun in my hand but drop my target line on Omar.
“Where,” Stefano Savarese asks softly, “do you think you’re going?”
Everything in me goes still. I can feel him behind me, close enough that the heat of his body cuts through the night air.
Close enough that if I move wrong, I die.
Close enough that my body, traitorous and over-alert, remembers the exact feel of his stare from the auction room and understands, with a certainty I resent, that this man has never once lost control of the evening.
Not when the raid started. Not when the room fell apart. Not even now.
Especially not now. I look at Erin and Heath. Heath is watching me. Eight years old, pale, rigid, trying not to tremble. Alice’s son.
I lower the gun by one inch. Only one.
“I’m leaving,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “With them.”
“Ambitious.” He sounds almost amused.
Omar moves to usher the children closer to the helicopter, and my grip tightens on the gun reflexively. Stefano’s barrel presses harder against my temple. A reminder, a warning, a promise.
I breathe slowly, swallowing hard again as I think. Evaluating the lack of options presented to me.
He knows something.
He didn't run during the raid. He bought me, then walked out like a man with a plan. Omar has the twins. Stefano is here. That means the children are no longer Leon’s — which means this isn’t the same operation I walked into.
I can’t shoot Omar before Stefano shoots me. I can’t reach the children before the helicopter lifts. And I can’t let them vanish without me.
So I do the only thing left.
I turn my head just enough to see Stefano from the corner of my eye.
“Take me with you.”
The gun remains at my head, but I can feel his attention sharpen.
“You were very eager to leave a moment ago,” he challenges, his voice smooth.
“I changed my mind.”
“Lying already.” His voice lowers a fraction. “We barely know each other, let’s not start our acquaintance off that way. Why?”
“I’m being practical.”
“No.” His mouth comes close to my ear, and the warmth of his breath moves over skin that should not notice. “I don’t think that’s quite it. Seems more desperate than practical with a gun to your temple. Don’t you think?”
I keep my eyes on the children.
“Maybe I am.”
That causes him to pause. Then his free hand comes around me, slow enough that I could track every inch of movement, and his fingers close around my wrist firmly.
He turns my hand until the gun points toward the ground, and I let him because the children are watching and because right now survival requires restraint.
He takes the weapon from me with a quick jerk. Effortless. Infuriating.
Omar finishes securing Erin and Heath inside the helicopter. Erin is crying now, eyes on the floor. Heath is looking at me.
Stefano leans closer.
“So desperate to be mine?” he whispers, that amused tone surfacing again.
The verbal caress causes goosebumps to rise on my arms. I should hate it, I should say object, I should say no. But I don’t. Instead, I look at the helicopter.
At my niece and nephew. At the only future I have left.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t answer, just moves with that quick, calculated, silent efficiency I’ve already glimpsed.
Pressing something soft over my mouth. Cloth.
Chemical sweetness. I jerk hard, but he already has my wrist in his grasp, and his arm locks across my chest as he holds me in place, his hand still over my mouth. The world tilts.
No. Not now. Not when I am this close.
I fight despite knowing how utterly pointless it is. I twist, kick back, catch his shin hard enough to earn a curse, but the drug is already in me, pulling at the edges of the vision, softening the lights, stealing distance from the space between one breath and the next.
The helicopter blurs. The children blur. The only thing that stays clear is Stefano’s eyes locked on me, his body against mine. He is the last thing I see before the dark takes me, Stefano Savarese looking down at me with that too beautiful face of his, and that devilish smirk.