Chapter 42
IVAN
I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps ringing against the steel. Every step feels like a damn alarm, like it’s announcing me to whoever is on the other side of that door. But I push faster anyway, chest tight, eyes scanning for cover—The door opens.
I freeze mid-step, then drop into a crouch, my back flattening against the wall, my pulse hammering in my throat. Dima and Aleksei will be here any minute. Fuck. I need whoever this is to move further into the warehouse before they come in. The footsteps below are single. One person.
I edge towards the railing, careful not to let the steel groan under my weight. Then I look down, and my stomach drops so fast it takes my breath with it.
Melani.
She’s supposed to be at the suite. With my men. Safe.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Relief hits first—it's her, not someone who could've exposed me—but shock swallows it almost instantly. Then fear. The kind that lives in the gut rather than the mind. She shouldn’t be here. Not in this place. Not anywhere near what’s about to happen.
Every nerve in my body is screaming to move, to get down there and drag her the hell out of there. I’m on my feet to do just that. She hears me on the stairs and looks up fast, her face draining of color when our eyes meet.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl, barely controlling the urge to jump the last few steps. How the hell did she even get in? How did she get past the security?
“The same reason you’re here.” She lifts her chin. “To gather information.”
“I’m going to fucking kill Boris,” I snap, grabbing her arm and yanking her into my chest.
“No, you’re not. I left on my own, I—”
“He failed at his job. Again.” I should have dealt with him properly the first time.
Shouldn’t have let her cloud my judgment—More footsteps approach the warehouse.
I curse under my breath. She left the door slightly open when she came in, so I tilt my head just enough to peer through the gap.
My tense shoulders relax when I recognize the men. My brothers.
“No, he didn’t,” she presses, stubborn as hell. “No matter who was watching me, I would’ve found a way to escape because I needed to. This is my brother we’re talking about.”
I shoot her a dark look. Not fucking now. The door swings open fully, and from the corner of my eye, I catch my brothers going still when they see us.
Dima speaks first. “Well, well, well. Didn’t know we were bringing dates.”
I throw a glare at him. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what exactly is it?” Aleksei cuts in, his voice dropping several degrees. “She can’t be here.”
“I have just as much right to be here as any of you,” she fires back before I can stop her. “I got the information about this warehouse without the resources you all have. I made it past security without your help. I’m not leaving.”
Aleksei takes a threatening step forward, and I move without thinking, sliding in front of her, blocking him.
“Well, well, well…” Dima chuckles behind him, his brows climbing.
“You can all be angry at me later and threaten me all you want,” Melani says, slipping out from behind me, “but we don’t have time for this. We need to find somewhere to hide before the men start arriving.”
“She makes a valid point,” Dima nods, already moving, scanning the warehouse.
Aleksei’s stare burns into her a second longer. “This is far from over,” he warns, then finally steps back and stalks off to search the space.
Melani sags against me, and I glance down, my heart squeezing at the immense relief on her face. So she had enough sense to be scared of Aleksei.
“Come on,” I say gruffly, gripping her arm. “You’re with me.” She doesn’t argue. First time for everything.
“Found one.” Aleksei’s cool voice grabs my attention, and I look over just in time to see him slip into a shipping container near the forklift. He leaves the door open a crack—enough for air and to see out.
“This should do,” Dima calls, already heading up the stairs, gesturing at the gap beneath the walkway where the staircase meets the wall. It’s tight, barely any space at all, but he starts sliding in sideways, one shoulder first.
“Dima.” I watch him. “You’re not going to fit.”
“I’ll make it work,” he grunts.
He does, in the end—by a hair, with considerably more grunting—and then he’s gone, swallowed up by the shadows. That leaves me and Melani. I’m glancing around the warehouse again when the muffled roar of cars pulling up outside vibrates through the walls.
Fuck. We’re out of time.
I tug her along towards the pallet stacks I dismissed earlier. They’re packed tight against the wall, leaving barely enough space to wedge ourselves in. I guide her in first, then press in behind her, sealing us into the narrow gap.
It smells like dust and damp wood, the air thick, but it will have to do. At least it’s dark enough that anyone walking in won’t see us unless they lean in with a flashlight.
I glance down at her to make sure she's okay, and my chest pulls tight at how close she is, at the danger she’s walked straight into. I don’t like her being here.
The engines outside cut off, followed by doors slamming. My pulse kicks hard. I check my phone, palm cupped over the light. 6:25. They’re early. Shit.
I pocket my phone and slide my arm around Melani’s shoulder, drawing her even closer, needing to feel that she’s still here, still safe. She’s stiff against me, breathing shallow through her mouth to avoid the dust, her eyes fixed on the small beam of light filtering through the stacks.
The warehouse door scrapes open, and the echo of boots on concrete carries through the space as several men walk inside.
The voices that follow are low and overlapping, as if multiple conversations are happening simultaneously.
It takes me a while to register that they aren't even speaking English.
Italian. Of course they're fucking Italian.
My jaw tightens. Who the hell could this be?
We have a tentative truce with the Italians.
Besides, Vincenzo Marino’s men were among the ones taken…
unless that was all bullshit. A ruse to throw the scent off their trail?
Is that why he didn't seem all that bothered when I went to see him?
I stay perfectly still, every muscle coiled tight as I listen harder, straining to catch individual voices even though the language is closed to me.
More footsteps echo through the space, followed by the sound of chairs scraping across the concrete floor.
A short, hard laugh cuts through the noise.
Then someone yells something across the room, and the chatter dies down into silence, leaving a single speaker.
I shift slightly, peering through the narrow gaps between the pallets.
None of them looks familiar. Not surprising.
I don’t mingle with the Italians—truce or not.
A tug at my shirt pulls my attention down. Melani is staring up at me, her eyes wide, her face close enough that I can see what’s written there. Not fear. Urgency.
“I know what they’re saying,” she whispers.