Chapter 13
LUKA
Cindy’s warm body is pressed against my chest.
I don’t know when it happened, but it just came to be—she sleeps in my bed now.
I roll away and reach for my phone. Viktor’s name is on the screen. “What is it?” I whisper.
Boss, you need to get down here. Now."
The urgency in Viktor's voice has me moving before he finishes speaking. I roll away from Cindy's warmth, her hair splayed across my pillow like silk. She doesn't stir—exhaustion has been hitting her hard lately.
"Where's here?" Jeans, shirt, holster—muscle memory takes over while my mind races through possibilities.
"The chop shop on Fifth." Viktor's pause makes my blood chill. "And boss? Bring extra men."
The drive takes twelve minutes. I know because I count each one, my hands steady on the wheel while my mind catalogs potential scenarios. Viktor doesn't panic. If he's calling for backup, something's very wrong.
I smell it before I see it—that distinctive metallic tang that makes even hardened men gag. Fresh death has a particular stench, sweet and sharp and wrong. My footsteps echo on concrete as I enter the warehouse, my eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescents.
"Jesus," someone mutters behind me.
The chop shop looks like a tornado went through it. Tools are scattered across the concrete floor like broken bones. Cars that had been in the process of being torn down are destroyed with what looks like a sledgehammer.
But it's the body in the center of the chaos that stops me cold.
Tommy Kowalski lies spread-eagle on the oil-stained concrete. His throat opened in a second smile that grins red in the warehouse's harsh fluorescent lights. I trained him myself three years ago. I taught him how to strip a car in under twenty minutes.
He was a good kid, only a couple of years younger than me, but they’re all kids to me.
Someone made sure he'll never talk again.
"When?" I ask Viktor, my voice eerily calm even as rage builds like pressure in my chest.
"Cleaning crew found him around midnight. Been dead maybe four hours, judging by the blood."
I crouch next to Tommy's body, studying the wound. Clean cut, professional work. This wasn't some street thug with a knife—whoever did this knew exactly where to slice for maximum effect. The kind of precision that comes from training, or experience, or both.
"Security footage?"
"Wiped clean. They knew where the cameras were."
Of course they did. This wasn't random violence. It was a calculated message. I stand, scanning the destruction around us, and that's when I see it.
Above Tommy's body, the concrete wall has become a canvas. Someone dipped their fingers in his blood—his fucking blood—and mixed it with engine grease to create a thick, dark paste. The letters are three feet tall; each stroke showing patience and purpose:
C I N D Y
My vision tunnels. The warehouse, my men, even Tommy's corpse—everything disappears except those five letters. Someone stood over this kid's cooling body and took their time. Planned each letter. Made sure the blood-to-grease ratio was perfect for visibility.
This isn't rage. Rage is messy and impulsive. This is calculated. This is someone telling me they can reach her whenever they want. That they know exactly which pressure point will make me bleed.
Viktor says something beside me, but I can't hear him over the roaring in my ears. Because they're right. Whoever did this understands what Cindy has become to me better than I understood it myself.
They know she's not just leverage anymore. She's the knife they'll twist to make me scream.
My control, the iron discipline I have learned over the years, is held by a thread so thin it's barely there.
Around me, I can feel my men watching, waiting to see if their boss is about to lose his fucking mind.
Part of me wants to. Part of me wants to tear this place apart with my bare hands.
I want to hunt down whoever did this and show them exactly what happens when they threaten what's mine.
But that's exactly what they want. They want me unhinged and making mistakes. They want me to act on emotion instead of strategy.
I force myself to breathe. I have to analyze this like any other attack. This isn’t random. Someone is trying to tell me something, and I need to understand the message before I can craft a response.
"Clear the room," I order, my voice deadly quiet. "Every inch. I want to know what they touched, what they took, what they left behind."
My men scatter like roaches when the lights come on. They’re all grateful to have something concrete to do. But I remain standing in front of that wall, staring at her name written in blood.
The message isn't about Cindy—not really. It's about me. About what they think they can use to control me, to make me vulnerable. They've identified my weakness and decided to exploit it.
The problem is, they're not wrong.
Somewhere between watching her care for Leo and feeling her body against mine in the darkness, Cindy stopped being just a captive or even just a woman I desire. She's become something more dangerous than any weapon my enemies could turn against me.
She's become someone I can't afford to lose.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: We know where she sleeps.
I'm moving before the words fully register, barking orders to Viktor as I stride toward the exit. "Lock this place down. No one gets in or out until the cleaners are done. And find out who knew Tommy was working tonight."
The drive home is a blur of speed and rage. Worst-case scenarios play through my head. They could already be there. Could have taken her while I was standing in that warehouse staring at her name written in blood. Could have—
No.
I cut off that line of thinking before it could take root. Fear makes you stupid, makes you reckless. And right now, I need to be smarter than I've ever been.
She’s under guard. No way anyone is getting in.
The compound looks normal as I pull through the gates. The guards are in position. Everything is exactly as it should be. But I don't relax until I've checked the security feeds and confirmed that all sensors are green.
She's safe. For now.
I find her in my bedroom, curled up on her side, brown hair spilled across the pillow like silk. In sleep, she always looks younger and more vulnerable than the woman who challenges me with every breath. The sight of her does something to the knot of tension in my chest.
But it doesn't make me feel safer. If anything, it makes the threat more real. Because now I know exactly what I stand to lose.
I wake her gently, my hand on her shoulder, mindful that startling someone who's been through what she has could have unpredictable results.
"Cindy. Wake up."
Her eyes open immediately, alert in a way that speaks of too many nights sleeping with one ear open. She takes in my expression and the tension in my posture and sits up without hesitation.
"What's wrong?"
Instead of answering, I move to the safe hidden behind the bedroom's false wall. My fingers work the combination from memory. I withdraw one of my backup pieces—a compact Sig Sauer that's reliable and easy to handle. Not my first choice for serious work, but perfect for someone with smaller hands.
I turn back to find her watching me with those intelligent green eyes.
"Come here," I say.
She climbs off the bed. I move behind her and place the gun in her right hand, wrapping her fingers around the grip. My body cages hers, my chest against her back, my arms bracketing her as I guide her through the basics.
"Safety is here," I murmur into her ear, my thumb covering hers as I show her the mechanism. "Thumb forward, both hands on the grip. Don't aim—point. Like you're pointing your finger at something you want to touch."
Her breathing is quick at first, adrenaline and fear making her hands shake slightly. But as I talk her through it—stance, sight picture, trigger control—she begins to calm.
"The recoil will surprise you the first time," I continue, my lips barely an inch from her ear. "Don't fight it. Let it happen, then get back on target."
"Luka." Her voice is quiet and controlled. "What happened?"
Before I can answer, I hear my bedroom door open. I step away from Cindy immediately, taking the gun and sliding it into the bedside table drawer.
"Papa?" His voice is thick with sleep, hair sticking up in every direction. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything is fine, kiddo."
Leo rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, looking every inch the confused five-year-old he is. "Can I stay with you? I had a bad dream."
Under normal circumstances, I would walk him back to his room and maybe sit with him until he falls asleep again. But tonight, with threats circling like vultures, I want him close. Want both of them where I can see them and protect them.
"Come on," I say, pulling back the covers on my side of the bed. "But no kicking."
Leo grins and scrambles onto the mattress. Cindy looks at me, like she’s asking if she should go back to her room.
I jerk my head toward the bed.
She offers a faint smile before going around and climbing in. I strip down to my boxers and get in on the other side.
Leo snuggles between Cindy and me like he belongs there. She wraps an arm around him automatically.
This. This is what they're threatening. Not just Cindy, but the family we've somehow become. The life I never thought I wanted until it was right there in front of me.
Giving my prisoner a gun is probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
But I have to trust her. I need her to be able to keep herself safe.
“If they come, shoot to kill,” I whisper after Leo has fallen asleep.
She slides her hand to mine and gently squeezes, letting me know she heard me.
"I won't let them touch you," I promise, the words carrying the weight of an oath. "Either of you."
"I know," she says, and there's absolute certainty in her voice.