Chapter Forty-Eight
Sabrina
Matteo won, much to Carlo's annoyance.
For the next twenty minutes, he insisted Matteo had only crossed the finish line first because his opponent had missed a gear, while Matteo accepted the congratulations with the smug satisfaction of someone who had no intention of correcting him.
By the time everyone decided we were hungry enough to warrant a stop, the debate was still going strong.
The petrol station sat just outside the city, its harsh fluorescent lights cutting through the darkness as the convoy pulled in.
“I'll grab snacks,” Carlo announced, climbing out of the car.
Matteo looked at him with poorly concealed amusement. “That sounded suspiciously like volunteering.”
“I was making a suggestion.”
“For yourself.”
Carlo sighed dramatically. “I regret opening my mouth.”
Laughter followed him towards the shop.
“I'm going to the bathroom,” I said, receiving nothing more than distracted nods before everyone disappeared inside.
The silence inside the bathroom was a welcome change from the constant roar of engines. I washed my hands, took a slow breath and stared at my reflection for a moment before pushing open the door and stepping back into the cool night air.
The feeling came almost immediately.
It wasn't a sound or a movement. It was instinct – the unmistakable awareness that I was no longer alone.
Without changing my pace, I continued across the forecourt, using the darkened windows of the petrol station to study the reflections behind me. Three men had separated themselves from the crowd, matching my pace with enough distance that most people would never have noticed them.
I did.
Russian.
I recognised the way they carried themselves before I recognised any of their faces.
Sergei's men.
A slow breath escaped me as I lifted a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
To anyone watching, it was nothing more than an absent-minded gesture.
In reality, my thumb found the concealed switch built into the bracelet Dante had given me for my birthday.
A barely perceptible click vibrated beneath my fingertips before I lowered my hand again.
The signal had been sent.
This wasn't how tonight was meant to unfold, but plans had a habit of changing.
So did I.
I let uncertainty creep into my stride, shortened my steps just enough to appear hesitant and allowed my shoulders to tense. They were close enough now to believe they had the advantage, and that was exactly what I wanted.
A hand clamped over my mouth while another wrapped around my waist. I screamed anyway, the sound muffled against rough skin as I kicked wildly, driving my heel into someone's shin hard enough to earn a curse.
A fist slammed into my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs, and I doubled over on instinct. It was all the opportunity they needed.
A hood dropped over my head, shutting out the lights of the forecourt as they lifted me from the ground.
“Hurry.”
“Get her in before anyone sees.”
The metal floor of the van struck my shoulder as they threw me inside. The doors slammed shut a heartbeat later, sealing me into darkness while the engine roared to life.
“She's lighter than I expected,” one of them muttered.
Another laughed. “She doesn't look like much.”
I curled further into myself, forcing uneven breaths past the hood covering my face. My hands trembled just enough to satisfy them, and when they tightened the restraints around my wrists and ankles, I let out a small, broken sound that earned another laugh.
Then one of them spoke.
“Volkov will be pleased.”
A pause followed before another voice answered.
“He finally gets his bride.”
The word settled over me like poison.
Bride.
For a fraction of a second, anger surged hot enough to drown out the pain in my stomach, but I buried it before it reached the surface. They needed to believe I was frightened.
The van rattled over uneven roads, the stale air thick with petrol, rust and old sweat. The men in the front spoke freely in Russian, never imagining I understood every word, while my fingers shifted almost imperceptibly until they brushed the slim blade concealed beneath the hem of my jeans.
One movement would have been enough. None of them would have lived to see the next bend in the road.
But killing them here would achieve nothing.
I needed them to take me to Sergei.
Another sharp turn rocked the van, and I let my head fall against the cold metal wall. The men laughed again, convinced they had broken me.
They couldn't have been more wrong.
To them, I was Sabrina Moretti – the daughter of an Italian mafia family, a bargaining chip, a future bride. They had no idea that beneath the hood and restraints sat the very woman Sergei Volkov feared most.
And by the time they realised who they had taken...
It would already be too late.