Chapter 3
Liev
The streets of Savannah feel hollow after midnight.
The storefronts are dark and the sidewalks are slick with the kind of cold that creeps through wool and leather alike, but my men and I carve through the quiet.
Tires hiss over damp pavement as the SUVs roll slowly at either end of the block, boxing the grid.
We move on foot between them, checking alleys and service doors, testing handles, and scanning rooftops.
Every few minutes someone radios in a sighting: a shadow vaulting a fence, a busted lock, a man swearing in Spanish. Each report tightens the wire already strung through my chest.
We find the first body behind a closed café.
It’s one of Hinto’s soldiers folded against the brick wall with his arm bent backward at a sick angle, gun missing.
He’s conscious enough to groan when I crouch beside him, fear blooming in his eyes as he recognizes me.
There’s no blood, just ruthless damage. He’ll recover, but he’ll need to find another career.
I catalogue this information away. Ryder isn’t someone who wounds with weapons, or fights to kill. It’s the first real thing I learned about her.
I stand without saying a word and keep moving, grim satisfaction cutting through the anger. She isn’t running blindly. She’s clearing her path.
Two blocks further, my people spread out, boots pounding the pavement.
I feel less like a groom chasing a runaway bride and more like a hunter tracking something rare and dangerous through my territory.
Every broken obstacle she leaves behind pulls me forward.
No one has ever challenged me like this, and I intend to be the one who catches her.
A couple of thin snowflakes drift down from the sky, melting before they ever reach the pavement.
They remind me of ash.
“She cut through Reynolds Square,” Oleg, one of my most trusted Brigadiers, murmurs. “Fast. Took out another one of Hinto’s boys. Broke his wrist.”
A faint, humorless smile tugs at my mouth.
“Of course,” I murmur. Her father is messy, but she’s precise.
Later, I find another man groaning behind a dumpster a few streets away. The destruction isn’t panicked; it’s specific. Knees shattered. Fingers bent the wrong way. Weapons stripped and left scattered.
She’s hunting her way out, following some kind of logical path. Where is she going?
The phone in my pocket vibrates. I answer without breaking stride.
“You lose something?” Kazimir drawls.
There’s amusement in his voice, warm with that quiet cruelty we’ve teased each other with since we were kids.
I can picture him leaning back in some leather chair, feet up, enjoying himself far too much.
These days he smiles more than frowns, and I should hate him for it, but I don’t. He’s made my daughter happy.
Even if he did ignore me when I told him she was off limits.
“If you’re calling to laugh,” I say, “hang up.”
He chuckles anyway. “Losing your bride before the vows. Not a strong start, Pakhan.”
“I’m not amused.”
The humor fades from his tone. “Then listen. If Hinto wants more control up the coast, he’ll make sure his daughter obeys. One way or another. You know that.”
I do. That’s the part I hate. Something in my chest twists at the thought of her being forced into anything, even if I’m the one meant to benefit.
“I don’t like this plan,” I admit.
“No one ever likes necessary plans,” Kaz replies. “But you wanted Miami. This is the price.”
I breathe deeply through my nose. “I’ll find her.”
“Good.”
I slide the phone away and keep walking, jaw tight.
We finally stop outside an aging duplex tucked between two boarded-up houses.
The streetlight flickers overhead, buzzing like a dying insect.
It’s the last place anyone would guess a woman like Ryder Moreno would go.
I’ve been watching her for months—reading reports of the luxurious hotel suites she rents out in her name, only to stay in places like this. My future wife is a mystery.
One of my men nods. “Power usage flagged here all week. Low but steady. Hidden router. She’s still using it as a safe house. You want us in?”
I study the windows, dark but alive in that subtle way electronics always are. She thought no one knew about this place.
She underestimated me.
“Wait outside,” I tell them.
“Shef—”
Being called “boss” still lands strange.
“Outside.”
They obey.
I slip in through the back door without a sound.
The place is sparse and utilitarian, more bunker than home.
A folding table covered in laptops and tangled cords.
Screens full of shipping manifests, port schedules, and surveillance feeds.
Stacks of notebooks filled with tight, meticulous handwriting.
A cot shoved against the wall for late nights monitoring; I’ve seen it before, part of my own men’s routines.
That’s what makes this even more painful. Ryder isn’t just the daughter of a cartel leader. She’s a major part of his enterprise, an asset he doesn’t even realize he has.
The room smells faintly of coffee and gun oil.
There’s a rustle from another room; the bedroom? I step through the doorway just as she shoves clothes into a duffel bag, movements sharp and furious. When she looks up and sees me, her eyes flash like a cornered animal’s.
For a second, we just stare at each other.
Predator.
Prey.
Except I’m not entirely sure which is which.
She lunges first.
Her elbow catches my jaw, her knee slams toward my ribs, and we crash into the wall hard enough to rattle the two-by-fours beneath the pitted drywall.
She fights dirty and smart, going for joints and tendons, and I’m forced to admire the technique even as I counter it.
The Bratva has relied for too long on weapons like guns, tasers, and knives.
This kind of fighting reminds me of my younger days, and I fight a cold grin as I catch her wrist, twist, pivot, and pin her against the mattress.
She bucks, spits at me, fury blazing.
“Get off me,” she hisses.
My pulse slams.
I grip her throat, not choking, just enough to still her, and lean close so she can feel my breath.
“You don’t run from kings,” I murmur, voice low and rough. “You think you can disappear from me?”
Her eyes don’t soften. They burn hotter.
“I’d rather slit my own throat than marry you,” she grits out. “And you’ll only be a king if someone hands it to you, not because you earned it.”
God help me, I almost laugh. This isn’t fear; it’s a challenge.
I’ve been thinking about her nonstop since that night on the boat, since the first time she looked at me like I was something worth fighting. I felt seen, and I’ve been touching myself to those brown eyes in the dark ever since.
I release her throat slowly, fingers sliding down to her upper chest instead. Her heart pounds under my palm.
“You’re not leaving,” I say quietly. “Not tonight.”
The air between us feels like a live wire, sparking, dangerous, inevitable.
Outside, my men shift in the dark. How long do I have before they get worried and come after me?
Inside, she glares up at me like she’d rather die than bow.