Chapter 38
VANE
Something's off with Lia.
I watch her move around the kitchen, her movements tense. For a week now, since the family dinner, she's been different. Jumpy. Distracted. The way she flinches slightly when I touch her unexpectedly. The way her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.
“You sure you're okay?” I ask, coming up behind her as she makes coffee.
“I'm fine,” she says, leaning back against me but not fully relaxing. “Just tired.”
Liar. I know her body better than she does. Something's changed, but she won't tell me what.
“You should get more sleep,” I say, pressing my lips to her neck. “Good thing you didn't come to the gala last night. It went late.”
And violent. But she doesn't need to know that.
“My migraine was terrible,” she murmurs, turning to face me. “How did it go?“
“Boring charity bullshit.” I keep my tone casual. “Rich assholes pretending to care about homeless kids while they drink thousand-dollar champagne.”
What I don't tell her is how Ilya Orlov made his move, tried to ambush us.
I especially don't mention how Orlov is now chained in our warehouse, waiting for me.
“I need to head out soon,” I say, checking my watch. “Meeting with Knox about some shipment issues.”
Her eyes search mine, and for a moment, I wonder if she knows. If somehow she's figured out what we really do. But that's impossible. We've been careful.
“Will you be late?” She asks.
“I shouldn't be too late.”
I grab my keys and phone, pulling her against me for a kiss that she returns, but without the fire I'm used to. I hold her a little tighter, a little longer, trying to recapture that connection.
“I love you,” I say against her lips.
“I love you too,” she whispers back.
But as I walk out the door, I can't shake the feeling that something's broken between us. And I have no fucking idea how to fix it.
I slam the door behind me, my mind still on Lia's distant eyes. Something's wrong, but I'll have to deal with that later. Right now, there's business waiting.
The morning air hits my face as I climb onto my Kawasaki Ninja. The engine roars to life, vibrating between my legs like a living thing. This—the power, the speed—always clears my head.
I weave through Ravenwood's streets, leaning into curves, pushing faster than I should. By the time I reach the east warehouse, my thoughts of Lia have retreated to a dull ache in the back of my mind.
I park next to Knox's bike, its neon blue paint job unmistakable even with mud splattered across it. My brother never could keep anything clean.
Inside, the warehouse echoes with a strangled scream. My lips curl into a smile. Knox started without me.
“About fucking time,” Knox calls out when I push through the door. He's standing in front of Orlov, sleeves rolled up, knuckles bloody.
Orlov hangs from chains bolted to the ceiling, his expensive suit torn and soaked with blood. His left eye is swollen shut, and his breathing comes in wet, gurgling gasps.
“Didn't want to wait for me, little brother?” I shake my head, pulling on leather gloves.
Knox grins, that wild, unhinged look dancing in his eyes. “The piece of shit asked about Bianca. Wanted to know if she enjoyed their time together.”
“And you still left his tongue attached?” I laugh, circling Orlov like a shark. “You're getting soft.”
“Nah.” Knox tosses me a pair of pliers. “Just saving the best parts for my favorite brother.”
I take the pliers from Knox, testing their weight in my hand. The metal feels right—cold and purposeful.
“You know what these are for, don't you, Ilya?” I whisper, leaning close to his ear. His one good eye widens, pupil shrinking to a pinpoint. “For every lie you told my brother Xavier, I'm going to remove something you'll miss.”
Orlov tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wet gurgle. I grip his jaw, squeezing until he whimpers.
“Shh. Don't waste your breath on begging. Save it for screaming.”
I grip his pinky finger in the pliers, applying just enough pressure to make him feel it. The fear in his eye is intoxicating—better than any drug. I twist slowly, feeling the bone resist, then snap. His scream bounces off the warehouse walls.
“One lie,” I say calmly, blood dripping from his mangled finger. “Nineteen more to go.”
Knox laughs behind me, the sound echoing. “Fuck, bro. You're taking your time today.”
“I've been looking forward to this.” I select Orlov's ring finger next. “Been dreaming about it.”
I don't pull this time—I twist, rotating the pliers in a full circle. The finger doesn't detach, just hangs by a thread of skin and tendon. Orlov's scream turns into a high-pitched wail that makes my skin tingle with satisfaction.
“That's for sending your men after my brothers,” I whisper. “The next one's for what you did to Bianca.”
I press the tip of the pliers against his eye—the good one—applying just enough pressure to dimple the surface without breaking it. Orlov thrashes against his chains, voiding his bladder in terror.
“Please,” he finally manages to choke out.
“Please?” I repeat, pressing harder until a thin trickle of fluid leaks from the corner of his eye. “We're just getting started.”
The pliers aren't enough anymore. I set them aside, reaching for the hunting knife I keep in my boot.
“You want to see real pain, Ilya? Let me show you what happens when you fuck with my family.”
I press the blade against his cheek, slicing down in a slow, deliberate line. Blood wells up immediately, running down his face in rivulets. His scream is weaker now—he's running out of energy.
“Hold his head,” I tell Knox.
My brother grabs Orlov's hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. I trace the blade down to his ear.
“This is for trying to move on our territory,” I whisper, sawing through the cartilage. The ear comes away with surprising ease, a small, bloody trophy in my hand. I hold it up in front of Orlov's face. “Should I mail this to your wife? Or maybe your daughter?”
A soft sound—plastic against metal—breaks my concentration.
I freeze, head snapping toward the warehouse door that should be locked. It's ajar now, a sliver of daylight cutting across the concrete floor.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, dropping the ear and moving toward the door.
That's when I see it—a small gold bracelet with an emerald charm. Lia's bracelet.
“Fuck.” My blood runs cold as I bend to pick it up, fingers trembling. “FUCK!”
I burst through the door in time to hear an engine start around the side of the building. I sprint toward the sound, heart pounding so hard I can barely hear anything else.
Knox is right behind me, grabbing my arm. “Vane, stop! We're not done here.”
“Lia was here,” I snarl, showing him the bracelet. “She saw everything.”
“So what?” Knox shrugs. “Let her go, she'll come around.”
“This isn't a fucking game, Knox! This is different.” My voice cracks with panic. “She'll leave me again.”
“We have a job to finish,” Knox insists. “Xavier will—”
“What would you do if it were Bianca?” I demand, grabbing his shirt. “What if she saw you like this and ran? Would you just let her go?”
Something changes in Knox's eyes—understanding, maybe even sympathy.
“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Go to her. I'll finish with this piece of shit and clean up.”
I race around the warehouse, finding a rusty tap on the exterior wall. The cold water runs red as I scrub frantically at my hands, trying to wash away Orlov's blood from under my fingernails. It's not working fast enough. All I can think about is Lia.
Lia saw what I really am.
I jump on my bike and gun the engine, weaving through traffic at speeds that should get me arrested. Red lights become suggestions as I blow through intersections, cars honking in my wake. I don't care. I need to get home before she does something stupid. Before she runs again.
Fifteen fucking years. I'm not letting her leave.
I screech to a halt in front of our building, abandoning my bike in the no-parking zone. The elevator takes forever, each second stretching into an eternity as I watch the numbers climb.
“Lia?” I call out the moment I burst through the door.
Silence answers me. The penthouse feels empty in that unmistakable way. I check every room anyway, flinging open doors, hoping to find her crying, angry, anything.
Nothing.
“FUCK!” I punch the wall, denting the drywall.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands and call her number. It rings and rings before going to voicemail.
“Lia, whatever you saw—” I stop, take a breath. “Just come home. Please. We can talk about this.”
I end the call and look around our apartment. Her purse is gone, but her clothes still hang in the closet. Her toothbrush remains in the bathroom. The book she's reading sits on her nightstand, bookmark still in place.
The déjà vu hits me like a physical blow. I'm eighteen again, standing in an empty bus station, realizing she's gone without saying goodbye.