Chapter 29 #2
His command cut through the space instantly.
The guards swarmed Ciro in seconds.
Rough hands grabbed his arms, pinned him, twisted him down.
Ciro struggled once—
Then stopped.
Realizing there was no escape.
His chest rose and fell rapidly as he swallowed hard.
Then—
His voice cracked.
“She’s at Ironveil Warehouse. I had her taken there.”
The words landed like a detonated charge in my chest.
Everything inside me went still.
Ice replaced blood.
“You sent a woman who’d just given birth—” my voice dropped, dangerously quiet, “—in freezing agony—to that place?”
Ironveil Warehouse.
The name alone carried weight.
Ironveil Warehouse is one of our oldest properties.
Rusted steel. Leaking roofs. Decay in every corner.
A place we used when we wanted bodies to disappear.
Not to heal. Not to survive.
To vanish.
He had lied—claiming the Spanish had taken her, when in truth he was the one who had sent her to the worst place imaginable.
“Lock him up,” I said without looking at Renzo.
My voice was flat.
“I’m going to find my wife.”
Renzo nodded once.
The guards tightened their grip on Ciro, dragging him away as his voice echoed faintly behind us—pleading, breaking, meaningless now.
I was already moving.
I tore through the hospital corridors like a force of nature.
Shoulder checking anyone who got in my way.
Orderlies shouted after me.
“Sir—slow down!”
I didn’t slow.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t care.
The elevator would have been too slow.
I took the stairs.
Three at a time.
Boots slamming against concrete.
Echoes bouncing off the walls.
My breathing steady.
But inside—
Everything was unraveling.
By the time I burst through the exit doors, the night air hit me like a slap.
I didn’t pause.
The Lamborghini was already waiting.
I reached it, yanked the door open, and dropped into the driver’s seat.
The engine roared to life the moment I turned the key.
Deep. Ferocious.
I slammed it into reverse.
Hard.
The car jerked back—too fast.
Metal scraped.
A sharp crunch echoed as the rear bumper collided with a parked white Porsche.
Then again—this time a matte-black Ferrari.
Alarms blared instantly.
Lights flashing.
A valet in a red vest sprinted toward me, waving his arms wildly.
“Hey! Sir! Stop! You need to—insurance—!”
His voice faded into nothing.
I didn’t hear him.
I floored it.
The tires screamed.
Rubber burned.
And the Lamborghini shot forward like a missile breaking loose.
The world blurred.
The forty-minute drive became ten.
I pushed the car to its limits.
Traffic became irrelevant.
The warehouse appeared out of the darkness like something abandoned by time itself.
Squat. Broken.
Rust-streaked.
Windows either boarded or shattered.
I slammed the brakes. The car stopped.
The engine hissed, still hot, not fully settled, as I stepped out.
Already moving.
Running.
Two guards stood at the main entrance.
I recognized them immediately.
Former soldiers.
Ciro’s recruits.
They raised their weapons—but too slowly.
I fired two suppressed shots, and they dropped before they could react.
I didn’t look at them.
I kicked the door open.
Glock raised.
“Elena!”
My voice echoed through the warehouse.
Off metal. Off concrete.
Off silence.
The smell hit me first.
Oil. Rust. Old blood.
Leftover death.
To the left—
Crumpled shipping containers.
Twisted rebar.
Jagged shadows stretching across the floor.
To the right—
A rusted catwalk leading to a second level.
The silence was wrong.
Like the building itself was holding its breath.
I moved forward.
Gun steady.
Eyes sweeping every corner.
Every shadow.
Every possible threat.
My heart hammered against my ribs—
But my hands stayed steady.
Because now—
There was only one thing that mattered.
Finding her.
Before it was too late.
Then I heard faint footsteps above me.
Voices followed—low at first, then clearer.
Laughter.
The kind that came from men who believed they were safe. Untouchable. Comfortable in their filth.
I moved.
Slowly.
Boots pressed lightly against the metal grating of the stairs.
Each step measured.
No wasted noise. No warning.
At the top, I paused just before the landing.
A door stood half-open.
Yellow light spilled out in a weak, flickering glow.
Along with it—
The sharp, sour stink of cheap whiskey, stale cigarettes, and sweat.
Men who didn’t know fear.
I listened.
Four voices.
Too relaxed. Too careless.
I exhaled once.
Then kicked the door open.
The door slammed against the wall with a violent crack.
Inside—
Four men around a folding table.
Bottles scattered across its surface.
Cards half-spread.
Smoke curling lazily through the air.
They froze mid-laugh.
One had a cigarette hanging from his lips.
Another had his hand on a bottle.
All of them looked at me.
For a split second—
Confusion.
Then realization.
Then fear.
I didn’t give them time to react.
The four men fell under my shots.
Each bullet found its target before the first man could even form a word.
Silence crashed into the room.
I stepped inside.
Gun raised. Eyes sharp.
I moved past the bodies without hesitation, stepping over them as if they were nothing more than debris.
The room itself was small.
Cramped. Messy.
Just a temporary holding space.
I checked corners.
Behind the table. Under the windows.
Nothing.
Clear.
But I didn’t relax.
Not even for a second.
Something felt off.
I exited the room and faced the second door.
Locked.
I stopped in front of it and listened.
And then—
I heard it. A faint rustle.
Movement.
Behind the door.
My grip tightened on the Glock.
There it was. Something.
Or someone. Alive.
I kicked the door hard.
The hinges gave way instantly.
The door burst open with a violent crack, slamming inward and crashing against the wall.
Inside—
Piles of discarded tarps and torn clothing rose like burial mounds around me, swallowing sound.
The room smelled of mildew and old motor oil.
The air itself felt thick, stagnant, as if the place had been sealed off from the world and forgotten.
I moved deeper into the room, Glock raised in a two-handed grip, barrel sweeping in slow, deliberate arcs.
My eyes tracked every shadow, every angle, every possible place a man could hide.
Every breath I took tasted like dust.
And something else.
Regret.
Then—
A sound.
A faint scrape.
Fabric on fabric.
Behind the tallest heap of rags to my right.
I stopped instantly.
Every muscle in my body locked into place.
I listened.
Nothing.
The silence stretched.
Too long.
Then—
Movement.
Sudden. Violent.
Before I could even pivot—
A body slammed into me from behind.
Arms like steel cables locked around my throat, crushing inward with brutal precision.
A forearm pressed hard against the side of my neck, digging into the carotid sinus—targeting the exact nerve cluster just beneath the jaw.
A trained move.
My vision exploded into white. Stars fractured across my sight.
My knees buckled immediately.
The world tilted.
Black creeping in at the edges.
But instinct took over.
I dropped my weight forward, forcing momentum to work in my favor, dragging the attacker with me just enough to break their balance.
My left hand shot up instantly, fingers clamping around their wrist.
I twisted—hard.
Bone grinding against bone.
At the same time, I drove my right elbow backward into their ribs with full force.
A sharp grunt of pain broke behind me.
The pressure around my throat loosened—just slightly.
But it was enough.
I inhaled.
A single breath.
Then I spun.
Breaking the hold.
And without hesitation—
I drove my palm upward into their chin.
Teeth snapped together with a sharp, sickening clack.
I followed immediately with a knee to the midsection—hard enough to fold them completely.
Then I hooked an arm around their torso, lifting with raw strength—
And threw them.
Their body slammed into the concrete with a heavy, echoing impact.
Air burst from their lungs in a pained gasp.
Silence fell again.
I dropped to one knee instantly.
Glock raised. Barrel centered.
Finger steady on the trigger.
And then—
I saw her.
“Elena...”
The word left my lips before I could stop it.
She lay on her back, chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths.
Her dark hair was plastered to her forehead, damp with sweat.
Her hospital gown—torn at the shoulder—hung loosely from her frame, stained with dried blood and traces of amniotic fluid.
Her skin was pale.
Bruises marked her throat.
But her eyes—
Those eyes.
Storm-gray. Burning.
Alive.
They locked onto mine with something raw.
Hatred.
She didn’t speak at first.
Just stared.
Breathing hard.
I lowered the gun slowly.
My hands were shaking.
For the first time in years.
I holstered it without breaking eye contact.
Without looking away from her.
She tried to push herself up.
Her arms trembled violently.
She barely got halfway before collapsing back against the wall with a weak, pained exhale.
One hand instinctively moved to her stomach—
But there was nothing there.
Empty. Deflated.
Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric, like she was trying to hold onto something that was already gone.
Her voice came out hoarse.
“Where...” she rasped, struggling to breathe through the words, “where is my baby?”
A pause.
Her voice cracked harder.
“Is he dead?”
The question hit harder than anything I had faced that night.
I swallowed.
Once.
Then forced the words out.
“He’s alive.”
Her head jerked up instantly.
The shift in her expression was immediate.
Confusion. Shock. Desperation.
“He’s in the ICU,” I added, my voice quieter now.
“Breathing on his own. Small... but fighting. The doctors say he’ll make it.”
For a fraction of a second—
Her entire face crumpled.
Relief hit her so hard it looked like pain.
Like she didn’t know how to process the fact that something she thought was lost—
Was still alive.
But it didn’t last.
Just as quickly—
The mask returned.