7
Cade
My arms tighten around her as she collapses against me. She’s small and soft. Delicate. Too delicate for the monstrous fate awaiting her.
Any second now, her would-be kidnappers will show up.
I carry her into the farthest stall, closing the toilet lid before lowering her onto it. Her head lolls against the wall as I adjust her position, making sure she won’t slip onto the grimy floor. Her floral perfume mingles with the bathroom’s harsh bleach scent.
I shut the stall door and return to the sinks to wait.
Not even ten seconds pass before footsteps echo outside. A light, jaunty whistle drifts closer, followed by a feigned slurred voice.
“ Luna? You in here, babe?”
Eduardo.
I turn on the faucet, letting the water run—a simple trick to make him think she’s here, splashing her face, trying to sober up.
“Luna?” Eduardo’s voice sharpens. “Are you okay?”
I move to the door, my body coiling like a spring. A part of me almost feels sorry for the kid.
The door creaks open, and Eduardo steps in, gun already drawn. Smart, but not smart enough.
“Luna—”
I strike before he can finish, my hand snapping out to seize his wrist. One precise twist at the perfect acute angle, and I feel the bones shift under my grip. The crunch barely registers as his gun clatters to the floor.
Before he can cry out, I yank him against me, his back to my chest, and drive my forearm across his mouth. His eyes go wide with panic as I twist his arm behind his back, locking it in place.
I feel the tension in his body—but he’s neglecting to tense the muscles that would save his life. Or maybe he’s unaware of what’s coming as I sink my hand into his hair. With a sharp jerk and a sickening crack, his body instantly goes limp, folding into my arms with a final twitch.
I ease him down to the floor.
“Sorry, kid,” I mutter. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
I hoist Eduardo’s dead weight over my shoulder, each second stretching taut as a tripwire. His body flops like a ragdoll, but I keep moving. The supply closet is just down the hall—I’d mapped it earlier, along with every other exit and choke point in this cesspool.
I wrench the door open and cram him inside, then wedge it shut. It won’t hold long, but I don’t need long. By the time anyone realizes he’s missing, we’ll be gone.
Nex t, I push through the swinging kitchen doors, and greasy heat slaps me in the face. My hand’s already on my gun as I enter. Three staff members freeze mid-motion, wide-eyed—a cook with his hands in a pot, a dishwasher dropping a stack of plates, and a busboy backed against the industrial oven.
There’s a crash of ceramic as they drop to their knees, hands flying up in surrender. The smell of fear mingles with burning garlic and dish soap.
“Where’s the cold storage?” My gaze snaps to the man closest to me, and he frantically points toward a steel door in the back. Perfect.
I crank the huge lock and swing open the door. “Get in.” Without a word, they file in like scared sheep. The last one is shaking so badly I can already hear his teeth chatter against the freezing air.
“It won’t kill you,” I mutter, shutting the door and flicking the power off. “Hopefully.”
Escape route clear, I retrace my steps to the bathroom to collect Luna, gently throwing her over my shoulder.
The back alley is bathed in sickly yellow light from ancient sodium lamps, shadows twisting like they’re hiding something worse than me.
I scan the space for witnesses. And then I see a shadow move in the corner—it’s the security guard peeling away from the darkness.
“Hey!” His fists come up as he barrels toward me. “What the f—”
The gun’s already in my hand, leveled at his chest. “Turn around and go back,” I growl. “You don’t want this.”
For a heartbeat, I think he might take the smart option. His eyes flick from me to Luna’s limp form in my arms, uncertainty creepi ng in. But then his jaw tightens. I see the exact moment he chooses to play hero.
Idiot.
The shot is barely more than a soft pop through the suppressor. His body jerks from the impact, and he crashes to the ground, groaning, blood seeping through the fingers clutching his shoulder.
Leaving him alive is going to be a problem, but tonight has already been messy enough. What’s one more loose end?
I step over him and move on, Luna’s warmth against my shoulder a constant reminder of why I’m burning everything to the ground tonight.
My motorbike waits in the shadows, but there’s no way I’m getting her on a bike.
I scan the lot, counting seconds and calculating risks. Then, I spot what I need. A beat-up Chevy lurking in the corner. Old car. Manual locks. The kind of forgotten piece of shit that’s perfect for what I need right now.
I hurry over and slam my elbow through the driver’s side window. Glass shatters, and then, unbelievably, the blare of an alarm pierces the night air loud enough to wake the dead.
Who the hell would put an alarm on this junk?
I yank the door open, quickly depositing Luna into the backseat. She flops awkwardly onto the dirty seat, but there’s no time to adjust her position. Already, shouts pierce the distance. Someone’s coming.
Ignoring the ringing in my ears, I drop into the driver’s seat, glass shards crunching under me. My fingers move with practiced speed, twisting the exposed wires together.
Come on, come on.
The engine sputters, coughs, and dies.
Shit.
I t ry again, my eyes darting between the ignition and the rearview mirror. The shouting grows closer. Footsteps—multiple sets—pound across the pavement toward us.
The engine finally roars to life with a rattling cough.
I slam the gearshift into reverse, tires screaming as I gun it out of the lot. The alarm wails on, echoing down narrow streets like a beacon. I take a sharp corner, clipping a parked car, and metal shrieks against metal.
In the rearview mirror, the lot shrinks into the distance, Enigma’s neon signs fading like a bad dream. No one’s tailing us. Yet.
That doesn’t mean tonight wasn’t an epic disaster.
The car is still alarming, lighting up my trail like a cop magnet. I left witnesses. Stashed a body in the supply closet. Wounded a guard. Left Hector alive. And my custom-made Ducati is sitting in the lot like a signed confession. Not to mention Scar and Kat, who are likely still waiting at the docks, wondering why no one has shown up.
What the hell am I thinking, throwing away months of careful planning for a woman whose father I intend to put in the ground a week from now?
My jaw tightens as I glance into the backseat. Luna is oblivious to the chaos unspooling around her. Dark hair spills across her face, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.
The car alarm finally cuts off, but my heart’s still hammering as I weave through city streets, each turn more reckless than the last. I push harder, needing distance between us and the mess I left behind.
My hotel’s underground parking garage materializes like a concrete sanctuary, and I slide into my usual bay—the camera’s blind spot. The lot is deserted, save for a few high-end vehicles scattered around like expensive chess pieces.
I l ift her from the backseat, cradling her like a lover who’s had one too many on a night out. She fits against me too easily—her head finding the hollow of my shoulder, her perfume seeping into my skin. It lingers, unsettling me in ways it shouldn’t.
The service elevator carries us to the penthouse on the twenty-third floor—my home for the past two weeks. Temporary, like everything else in my life. I fumble with the keycard, hyper-aware of Luna’s soft breathing against my neck.
Inside, I do a quick sweep. Everything’s as I left it. I head straight for the bedroom, laying her on the king-sized bed. Her dark hair fans out on the pillow like spilled ink. She looks . . . peaceful. Like she’s just fallen asleep after a long night, not been drugged and hauled out of a club filled with predators.
I tug off her boots, then pause, staring at the arch of her foot. And then I let myself really look at her.
She might be out cold, but there’s a residual energy to her, a fierceness wrapped in entitlement and dominance—like a sheathed sword. I catch myself tucking in the covers around her, then push away from the bed and return to the living room.
What a fucking mess. And the real problem? I wasn’t on assignment. Hector’s execution was personal, which means cleaning this up will take finesse. No help from the Bureau on this one.
I’m just loading up the feed from street footage when my phone vibrates.
I swipe to answer. “Quinn.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Agent Marcus Hawkins sounds like he’s growling through gritted teeth, fury evident in every syllable.
I smirk, not that he can see it. “What do you mean? I’m home.”
“ Cut the bullshit. You’re supposed to be invisible between hits. Why the fuck am I getting reports tying you to a club shooting? There’s a missing woman, a stolen car, witnesses, and an e-fit out there with your face on it. Chicago PD’s on high alert, and they’re looking for ‘Rocky Savage.’”
I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose. Shit, that was fast. Funny how Eduardo’s not mentioned. Hawkins never brings up the bodies—just the living loose ends.
“What’s the story?”
“The story,” he hisses, “is that you and Hector Lobo had a fallout and you took his woman. You’re seriously going to blow your cover over a piece of ass?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Calm down. I didn’t blow my cover. I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing: kidnapping women.”
“That’s your excuse?”
I flick through the feeds from street cameras. They’re grainy and unclear. Perfect. “It’s not an excuse, Hawkins. It’s my job.”
“Why the fallout with Hector?”
“We’re friends.” I keep my voice dry. “Friends fight.”
His breath leaves in a rush, followed by a silence that tells me he’s trying not to lose his shit. “Hector is a major player in the trafficking ring,” Hawkins explains patiently. “You can’t afford to burn bridges with him.”
“Oh, the bridges are still standing. Just a little scorched.”
His exasperation crackles through the line. “This isn’t some alley shakedown, Quinn! The Chicago PD is now involved. And soon the media too will be.”
“Then you tell them all to take a hike off a federal investigation,” I snap.
Haw kins’ silence tells me he’s still scrambling. In all the years he’s been my handler, I’ve never once gone off-script, so this is new for him.
I let him stew for a few moments, then mutter, “Fine. When I return from Moscow, we can let Chicago PD arrest me for optics and send out a press release. Whatever makes the brass happy.” I pause. “Now, can you get off my back?”
Hawkins hesitates. “Why did you take Hector’s woman? Was it to intercept a sale?”
The question hangs in the air like smoke. I consider lying. But what’s the point?
“Yes.”
There’s a beat of dead silence, then Hawkins explodes. “You were off duty! You had no clearance to seize any merchandise!”
“Not even if she’s Alfred Romano’s daughter?”
I can hear Hawkins breathing—ragged, uneven. He’s trying to wrap his head around it.
“You’re telling me . . . Hector was selling Romano’s daughter?”
“Yep, served up by his Consigliere , Clemenza Brando,“ I reply. “She was bound for Al-Dawahi.”
Silence stretches long enough for the shock to sink in.
“The Middle East?” Hawkins finally whispers, as if he’s talking about some mythical beast.
“Yep, it’s real. Congratulations, you’ve got your confirmation. The place exists. Going rate? Thirty million a piece.”
“Christ . . .” He exhales, and I can practically hear the wheels turning. “If Al-Dawahi’s in play, that changes everything.”
No shit. He’ll have to run it up the flagpole now. Fucking puppet on a string.
“I need to call this in,” Hawkins says right on cue. “Give me a minute, Quinn.”
“Take all th e time you need,” I drawl, then disconnect.
I pull up my files on Hector and scan his contacts and goons. Stealing from him will surely kick up a storm, and I need to be ready to use his rage to my advantage.
Not even five minutes later, Hawkins calls back.
“The Romano girl,” he begins, his voice measured. “Is she with you?”
“Yes, why?”
“You’re going to return her to Hector.”
My fingers freeze, hovering over the keyboard. “Excuse me?”
His voice grows tight. “She’s an asset now. A source of intel on Al-Dawahi.”
“What?”
“You’re going to take her back to Hector and maintain your cover. Tell him whatever you need—say you lost control, you were overwhelmed with lust, greed. Apologize for stepping on his toes. From one sleazebag to another, I’m sure he’ll understand.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “Let me get this straight. You want to send Romano’s kid off to some desert dungeon and let her gather intel as a fucking sex slave?”
“That’s the directive from above,” Hawkins says flatly. “We chip her and track her. Then we’ll extract her later. Six months should be sufficient.”
My voice drops to a snarl. “She’s not fucking bait!”
He shoots back. “You have your orders, Agent Quinn. Do not get attached. Chip the girl and return her—”
“Come and get her, then.” I cut him off icily.
“Agent Quinn —”
I disconnect the call.
For a moment, I sit there, staring at the phone, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. My eyes narrow as I glance in the direction of the bedroom.
Protecting her tonight put me dangerously close to the edge of oblivion. One more cock-up like tonight’s, and I could be taken down for going rogue.
A new, sensible plan starts to crystallize. Something unnamed wars with the plan, but I smother it. I have to turn my back on Luna and focus on my mission. She needs to find herself another protector.
I fire off a quick text to Scar:
Something came up. Tonight’s job is not happening. Take the night off and get the jet ready for Moscow at dawn.
His response pings back instantly.
Whatever, asshole.
I toss the phone onto the couch and start pacing the living room. Luna’s ketamine-laced snores drift from the open bedroom—a steady reminder that everyone wants a piece of her. Her family. Her friend. The damn government.
And there’s not one fucking thing I’m going to do about it, except let her sleep.
Hell, it’s probably the best sleep she’ll get in a long time.