Chapter 72
BELLA
The stairs creak beneath my heels as the guard drags me deeper underground.
He doesn’t speak. Just keeps a brutal grip on my arm, his fingers digging deep enough to bruise.
When we reach the end of the corridor, he unlocks a steel door and shoves me inside. The room is small, concrete, and windowless. There’s a single chair bolted to the floor.
“Wait here,” he says flatly.
But he doesn’t leave.
He closes the door behind him and turns, eyes raking over me like I’m merchandise.
My pulse spikes.
“For who?” I ask.
“No, I meant don’t fucking move.”
Every instinct in me screams.
“I don’t think that’s how this works,” I say quietly.
He steps closer. “Down here, sweetheart, it’s exactly how it works.”
My stomach twists, but my face doesn’t move. I’ve seen men like him before. Entitled, stupid, violent. They all think they’re in control because they’re a man. That a little woman like me couldn’t possibly defend herself.
Wrong.
When he reaches for the zipper of my dress, I take a slow breath. My hand drifts down, like I’m trembling. Like I’m scared.
Maybe I am. But not enough to freeze.
His fingers brush my shoulder roughly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “You’ll do just fine. I bet that pussy tastes sweet too.”
That’s when I move.
My heel snaps up, catching his thigh hard enough to make him grunt. As he stumbles, I twist, tearing the knife free from the hidden slot inside my boot.
He lunges for me. I duck low and drive the blade up right beneath his ribs.
The sound he makes is wet and ugly. But also kind of satisfying.
“Fuck,” he chokes, staring down at the hilt buried in his side.
I shove him backward. He hits the wall and slides down, eyes wide in disbelief.
Blood pools fast beneath him.
I crouch, breathing hard, heart hammering like a drum in my ears. My hands are shaking, but my mind is razor-sharp. This is how I was taught to survive. God, I want to hug my brothers for making sure I was a badass.
“Wrong girl to test,” I whisper.
Then, I jam the knife straight into his throat. Hard and fast. Enough to make sure he doesn’t come after me.
I wipe the blade on his shirt, grab the keycard clipped to his belt, and bolt for the door.
I press the comm in my ear to Drago. “Extraction,” I whisper. “Now.”
The guard’s ID badge in my hand is slick with his blood. His boots thud a few feet away as he slips into a shallow convulsion and then goes still.
The plastic card’s laminate catches the dim light. I flip it over with fingers that don’t quite stop trembling, and the name stares up at me in cold block letters: IGOR KORCHINOV.
My skin prickles. That name tells me more than the blade did. And gives Reggie and Rowan another lead to Russia.
I steady myself against the concrete before I step into the corridor.
I hit the comm again. “Can I proceed?”
Static. Then Drago’s voice. “Back route’s clear. Two exits. Head left, service door by the boiler room. I’m pushing a distraction on the floor cams, sixty seconds.”
Sixty seconds. My lungs want to collapse. My legs want to run. I force my feet into motion. I just want my men to pick me up and drag me out of here. I want to feel safe again.
Every corner could be an ambush. I pause at a service door with a rusted exit sign and hold my breath.
The lock reads green on the keycard. I don’t let myself think ahead.
I think of Reggie’s thumb against my lip, the way Rowan hums when he’s anxious.
I push the door and slip out into the alley, the night air biting my skin.
Above me, neon flickers. The city hums, indifferent to the blood on my hands.
“On you in thirty,” Drago’s voice comes through. “Keep moving to the van. Third light post. Blue Ford. Don’t stop. Quiet.”
“Copy,” I whisper. “See you in thirty.”
I run with my knife clutched tight. Behind me, the club’s door slams shut. In front of me, freedom looks like a dark street and a waiting van.
And I don’t stop running.