Chapter 30
Kolya
Silence.
Chloe.
Pain.
Chloe.
Wet. Blood. Both mine and not mine. The copper scent permeates the air.
This is why we have hardwood and store a shop-vac in the garage.
Reality snaps into place, shoving past the mental reflexes that locked me down while I catalogued the scene.
Chloe!
Pushing off the floor, I shrug out from under the dead man on top of me.
He was the last one I eliminated before someone crashed a heavy weight over my skull to knock me out. The corpse is chest down with his chin jutting over his shoulder. Broken jaw and a broken neck.
Stubborn bastard.
Stumbling toward the side table where I left my phone, I survey my own damage.
Split scalp, shallow but bleeding like a motherfucker.
Left eye swelling shut, right shoulder screaming.
Ribs possibly cracked. With every breath, an invisible knife stabs my lungs. My side’s sticky, and there’s glass embedded in my forearm, a souvenir from the shattered lamp. The red coats my hands, the blood already drying to rust.
These wounds don’t matter. The damage to the safe house doesn’t matter.
Chloe does.
Rage thrashes against my sternum like a furious beast begging for release. But I keep the monster caged.
Rage is useless. Rage gets people killed. I need discipline. Precision.
Retribution.
I know just the guy to call.
I tap the screen, and after a few rings, Kirill’s angry voice erupts in my ear. “What the—”
“She’s gone. Northern safe house is compromised. Falcones abducted her. I need you.” During the ensuing pause on the line, my pulse thunders in my ears.
“Roman will kill you for this mess.”
I can’t stop my bitter, painful laugh. “Let him, if I survive. I’m getting her back. Are you in?”
Another beat of silence. For a second, I wonder if he might say no and tell me I’m on my own.
When he finally answers, some of the pressure eases from my chest.
“We’re on our way.”
CHLOE
I rouse with a gasp. Rough burlap scrapes my face raw with every desperate breath, and my lungs expand sluggishly. My nose and lips burn.
A memory flashes through my mind. A soft cloth pressed to my face, followed by a sweet smell, and then nothing.
Chloroform. It burns on contact and makes breathing difficult.
Those romance books taught me something useful, after all.
I barely have time to register the darkness before the bag’s ripped away, yanking out strands of hair.
Light smacks my eyes like a physical blow, and pain stabs my skull.
I blink, squinting against the harsh glare from somewhere above as I sit on what I think is a metal chair. My wrists chafe from the biting ropes.
Unhurried steps echo across concrete as they head toward me. My heart speeds with every footfall.
I still can’t see where I am or who pulled the bag from my head. I blink more, trying to clear my vision. Adrenaline surges, adding to the nausea but chasing away the lingering drug-induced confusion.
My eyesight adjusts.
Concrete walls. High ceilings. A warehouse, maybe, or some kind of industrial basement. The air smells muggy and metallic, like rust and mildew and chemicals I can’t place.
I attempt to maneuver my head to identify who’s behind me, or at least how many.
My body aches everywhere, my muscles screaming from being held in the same position.
How long have I been here? Hours? Days? My clothes from the safe house—Kolya’s t-shirt, my underwear—cling to my skin, damp with sweat.
Dried blood lines my thigh from a scrape I don’t remember getting.
Kolya.
My heart kicks in my chest. The last time I saw him, he was fighting but outnumbered, bodies swarming him like ants. Once again, I shiver as I recall the murderous expression he wore when the men dragged me away.
His eyes promised death for anyone who touched me.
Is he somewhere in this building, tied up like me? Or worse?
I swallow down the panic clawing at my throat like a living thing.
I can’t afford to fall apart.
The footsteps grow louder. Closer.
A man emerges from the shadows beyond the harsh circle of light. He’s not holding a weapon, which I find even more terrifying.
His confidence suggests he doesn’t need a gun to hurt me.
What strikes me first is how stupidly handsome he is.
Not rugged and dangerous like Kolya, but polished, like a model who just stepped off the runway.
Dark hair sweeps back from a face with features so uncannily symmetrical, they seem unreal.
High cheekbones. Full lips curving in a smile that might be apologetic if it reached his eyes.
His suit probably costs more than my car. It’s not the best comparison, as a movie ticket costs more than poor Fred. But the outfit is charcoal gray, expertly tailored to broad shoulders and a narrow waist. No tie. Top button undone. A casual show of power.
“Welcome.” His cultured voice contains a hint of an accent that I don’t immediately recognize. “Sorry for the accommodations. We had to move quickly.” He circles behind me.
I tense as a cold blade slides along my skin. My breaths quicken as I brace for pain, but the blade only slices the rope.
Great, he’s armed.
“I’m Salvatore Giovanni Harrison Falcone. You can call me Gio.”
Falcone. The family Kolya mentioned. The ones hunting us, hunting me.
The ropes fall away, and blood rushes back into my hands. I bite my lip to keep from crying out over the stabbing pain. When I rub my wrists, I find the skin raw and weeping in places.
Gio prowls into my line of sight again. Using the knife, he gestures to a small table, where a chair, a sandwich on a paper plate, and a bottle of water sit. “Please.” The knife disappears up his sleeve.
A polite command, dressed up as courtesy.
Instantly, my hackles rise.
I stand on shaky legs, every muscle protesting. The few steps to the table seem like miles. Gio walks beside me with his arm out in case I need it.
I tighten my knees and cross the distance without help. When I reach my goal, I collapse into the chair, not trusting my body to hold me a second longer.
My throat is so dry that swallowing hurts, but I hesitate to grab the water bottle.
“It’s not poisoned.” Gio waves at me. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”
My hands shake as I reach for the bottle. Moving slowly, I ensure the plastic crackles when I twist the cap to confirm the seal was intact.
The first sip of water is heaven, cool and clean on my parched tongue. I want to gulp but force myself to take small, measured drinks. My stomach churns, threatening to reject even this tiny mercy.
In this light, Gio’s eyes appear almost black.
Calculating. Assessing.
I’ve seen that same expression on Kolya.
He circles the table like a shark, flips his suit coat open with easy grace, and lowers himself into the folding chair across from me. All suave charm.
His posture is casual, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. But there’s nothing relaxed about the icy intelligence in his eyes. “So, Chloe, where are the diamonds? Once you tell me, we can drop you off any place you ask. Perhaps even with a finder’s fee.”
If Gio doesn’t know where the diamonds are, I sure as heck won’t tell him.
I hug myself and try to stop shaking. With the cold seeping into my bones, I’m regretting my choice of underwear. “I don’t know anything about your stupid diamonds.”
Surprise flickers across his face at my little show of backbone. Then his lips curve into that grin that doesn’t touch his eyes.
“You don’t really think this is about just the money, do you?
” He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“This is bigger than that. A few million in diamonds?” He clicks his tongue against his teeth dismissively.
“Those diamonds are a war chest. They can buy loyalty. Destroy families. Build empires. Wipe the Kozlovs off the map and secure my family’s position. ”
As he speaks, he scrutinizes me for any reaction, any tell.
I neutralize my expression, using the same tactic as when students ask inappropriate questions in the bathroom lines.
“You are a piece in that game. Tell me where the diamonds are, and I can move you off the board. You’ll go back to your little suburban world.
Your classroom. Students. Your nurse friend.
” Dread crawls over my skin when he utters that last sentence.
He knows about my life. About Bree. “Pretend none of this ever happened.”
I avert my gaze, not trusting myself to speak.
Gio sighs in a theatrical display of disappointment that has me tensing as he stands. “I was truly hoping we wouldn’t have to get to the messy part.” He smooths his suit jacket with manicured hands and glances at me almost sadly. “You don’t deserve this. But così è la vita.”
Frigid terror ices my blood. What’s he going to do? Cut off my fingers? Brand me? Break me piece by piece until I reveal everything?
He doesn’t come for me.
Instead, he walks to a steel table set against the far wall.
He unrolls a leather toolkit reminiscent of the kind mechanics use for their most expensive tools, leisurely laying out the contents so I can get a good look.
Blowtorch, pliers, tile nippers, and other heavy steel implements that I’ve never seen before.
My stomach lurches. I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.
Gio’s hands move with the delicate care of a surgeon as he arranges his instruments of torture. He doesn’t glance at me or speak.
The silence holds more terror than any threat.
When he finally focuses on me again, his expression gentles, appearing almost compassionate and understanding. Completely at odds with the array of promised pain displayed behind him.
“Unless you force my hand, this isn’t for you.”
Relief floods me, quickly followed by confusion.
If not for me, then who?
“Tell me where the diamonds are, and I’ll only take a few fingers.” His matter-of-fact tone better suits a discussion about the weather. “Don’t, and I’ll start with his eyes.”
The world stops spinning.
His?
My gaze tracks Gio’s to a heavy metal door on the far side of the room, where two men stand guard, their faces covered by black balaclavas and their hands resting on holstered weapons.
The implication that Kolya is behind that door is clear.
I watched him go down fighting amid crashes and grunts of pain. I have no way of knowing if they captured him, too, but I heard multiple vehicles on the drive over.
The world narrows to a single point.
All fear for myself vanishes, burned away by a white-hot, protective rage. I see Kolya’s hands. The hands that broke a man’s wrist for me and cradled me while I came apart. His eyes, dark and fierce and intense, seeing me when no one else ever has.
No. You will not touch him.
The terror shifts to an unnerving calm. I feel like I’m floating somewhere above my body as this scene plays out from a distance.
My heart rate slows. My breathing steadies. The shaking stops. My voice, when it comes, is quiet, level, and utterly out of place in this concrete hell. It’s the same disappointed voice I use when a five-year-old is about to throw a toy.
“Now, now. That is not a good choice, Mr. Gio. You should rethink your plan of action and find a better alternative.”
The blowtorch in his hand lowers an inch as confusion creases his perfect brow. “What did you say?”
“Hurting someone to get what you want may work in the short term but has long-term consequences. Remember to stop and take a deep breath when you’re angry or upset. That way, you can make good choices.”
In my mind, I picture him as little Manny, who tends to act out when he’s hungry. I’ve said these exact words to dozens of children when they hit or kick or bite to get their way. The familiarity of the phrases comforts me, grounding me in these moments of pure insanity.
Gio gapes, his face pinched. He appears genuinely baffled, as if I’ve started speaking in tongues.
The blowtorch dangles from his fingers, forgotten. “You think this is a game? You think a cute little speech will stop this?”
I rise slowly. The metal chair scrapes against concrete as I push it back. My back straightens. My chin lifts.
Without flinching, I meet his gaze.
The perky teacher disappears, replaced by the survivor.
Gio notices the shift, and genuine surprise breaks through his controlled demeanor. His hand, resting at his side, clenches into a tight, white-knuckled fist.
I’ve thrown him off script.
“I can’t lead you to any diamonds. Neither can Kolya. He did ask me about them, and we tried to find them but failed. He searched my house and my classroom, and they’re not there. Whatever or whoever told you I had them was either wrong or lied.”
Gio’s jaw tightens. He’s clearly not used to his threats falling flat.
He sets the blowtorch down.
When he studies me again, he sports another smirk, this one a little forced. “Your choice.”
Unwavering, even while screaming on the inside, I hold his gaze. I’m nine years old again, hiding under a porch while the world burns around me.
Outside, though, I am stone. I am steel. I’m the woman Kolya found beneath the glitter and rainbows.
A woman strong enough to survive.