Chapter 28
SEBASTIAN
Matteo is already parked off the private road when I arrive, his car tucked beneath a stand of dead eucalyptus.
Two of our men wait farther down the shoulder, both watching the house at the top of the hill.
Even from here, I can tell the place has no power.
No porch lights, no glow from the windows, no generator noise carrying through the trees. Nothing.
I park beside Matteo and get out. He meets me between the cars and hands me a folded printout.
“County records. Mostly useless.”
I glance down. First floor, second floor, a few utility notes, and a detached garage that looks like it’s been abandoned for years.
“Any mention of a basement?”
“None. Which means nothing at all.”
I hand the papers back. “Have you seen any movement?”
“Nothing. No guards outside. No cameras that I can see.”
That should be good news. It isn’t.
“It feels too easy,” I say.
“It probably is.” Matteo looks up at the house, then back at me. “It could be a trap.”
“From what I’ve learned, he doesn’t do anything alone.”
“He might now,” Matteo says. “A desperate man is dangerous. Don’t be so locked in on what you know about him that you miss what’s right in front of you.”
I know he’s right. I also know Adrian is unstable enough to improvise and arrogant enough to think he’s brilliant.
I look toward our men.
“One of you circles the back. One covers the drive. If anyone comes off that property, I want to know before they hit the trees.”
Both of them nod.
Matteo checks the magazine in his pistol, then looks at me. “Ready?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. We’ve faced worse together. I know he’s got my back no matter what, and he knows I have his. We move up the hill together.
The front doors are locked, but the side entrance gives on the first try. The lock plate is broken, splintered where someone forced it recently. Adrian, probably.
Inside, the house smells like dust, damp wood, and stale air. Our footsteps echo too much, and I hate it immediately. There’s no electricity or distant voices to cover our noise. Light from the windows cuts across a grand foyer with cracked tile and a chandelier hanging dark over all of it.
Matteo slams the door behind us. “If he’s here, he heard that.”
“Good.”
We clear the first floor room by room.
Living room, empty. Dining room, empty. Kitchen with old appliances, a dead refrigerator, and a box of bottled water sitting open on the counter. Recent. No dust. Next to it, a torn protein bar wrapper.
Matteo sees me look at it.
“Proof of life,” he says.
A back hallway leads to a study with built-in bookshelves and a desk shoved against the wall. A candle burned halfway down sits on the mantel with a used coffee cup on the floor beside it. One person. Maybe two. Hard to tell. I decide to keep moving.
“Upstairs,” I say.
Upstairs, we find the first real proof she was here. One bedroom has fresh sheets on the bed and another empty water bottle. An untouched protein bar beside it. I stop so abruptly Matteo nearly walks into me.
“She’s been here,” I say. “I can smell her soap.”
“Where the hell is she?”
The room has a bathroom with no water, a chair shoved near the window, and bars bolted to the outside. I step closer. They’re solid with fresh paint over old metal. Adrian chose this room on purpose. The bedspread is rumpled.
“Sebastian.”
I turn.
Matteo stands by the door with his head tilted, listening. At first, I don’t hear anything over my own pulse. Then it comes again. Faint. Muffled. Not words, but a sharp cry swallowed by walls and distance.
I’m already moving before Matteo points. The sound comes from somewhere below us. We tear through the second floor, down the stairs, and back into the study. The noise is clearer here. Something hits wood. Then a strangled yell.
“Has to be a basement,” Matteo says.
“There’s no basement on the plans,” I say.
“And I told you that means nothing. There’s a hidden entrance somewhere.”
We split the room without speaking. I go for the bookshelves. Matteo checks the paneling near the fireplace. Another thud comes from below, followed by Val’s voice, raw and furious.
“Get off me.”
Adrian says something I can’t make out.
“Here.” Matteo presses his hand flat to the wall beside the mantel, then grips the edge of a narrow panel I never would have noticed if we weren’t listening for her. It pulls open just enough to reveal a dark stairwell behind it.
I take the lead.
The steps are steep, narrow, and unfinished. Dirt and mold hit me the second I start down. No lights. No windows. My phone flashlight jerks across old stone and a low ceiling as I descend too fast. Matteo is right behind me.
Val screams again. I hit the bottom step with my gun up, but there’s no clean shot.
The basement is half storage, half cellar. Old wine racks. Broken furniture. Plastic sheeting over stacked crates. Adrian has Val pinned against a support column near the far wall, one hand twisted in her hair, the other braced against her throat. His gun sits on a table beside a lantern.
I stop at the foot of the stairs. Val is between us, and the gun is close enough for Adrian to reach.
Val sees me first. Relief flashes across her face, fast and painful. Adrian turns, sees us, and reaches for the gun.
“Don’t,” I say, but he already has it.
He yanks Val in front of him so fast she stumbles, and then the barrel is jammed against the side of her head.
I stop breathing for half a second, then force myself to start again. Matteo halts at my shoulder, weapon raised but useless with Val between us.
“Come any closer and I’ll shoot her,” he says.
“That’s a waste,” I say, as calm as I can manage. “You didn’t come all this way and spend all these weeks planning just to blow her brains out in a dirty basement.”
Val is breathing hard, face pale, hair tangled, lip split. A bruise is already rising on one side of her jaw, and dirt streaks her jeans like she’s been fighting him on the floor. I want to cross the room and kill him with my hands. Instead, I make myself stand still.
“Let her go,” I say. “There’s no reason to hurt her.”
“I’ll do whatever I want with her,” he seethes. “She’s mine.”
“She doesn’t belong to you.”
His mouth twists. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Val’s eyes find mine over the line of his arm. I can see the fear there now, stripped raw. I can also see that she’s trying not to give him more of it than he already has.
“Adrian,” Matteo says, his voice steady, “you’re boxed in. You don’t have a car out front, you don’t have men with you, and our people are outside. This only ends one way.”
Adrian barks out another laugh. “You think I care?”
“Yes,” Matteo says. “I think if you didn’t care, she’d already be dead.”
Adrian presses the gun harder into Val’s temple. She winces. My hands tighten on my own weapon.
“I should have killed you in New York,” Adrian snarls, right into her ear.
“You didn’t have the nerve,” Val spits.
His grip jerks in her hair. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“Val,” I say sharply.
Her eyes cut back to me. I just need him to move the gun one inch. That’s all.
“Look at me,” I tell her.
She does. Her eyes fill. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry I fought you on everything. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry, Sebastian.”
“Val, stop. None of this is your fault.”
Adrian’s face twists with something ugly and jealous and half broken. He drags her harder against him.
“Look at you,” Adrian says. “Crying for him.”
Val shakes her head as much as she can with the gun against her skin. “I’m not crying for him.”
“Then what are you doing?”
She looks at me, and for the first time since I stepped into this room, I’m truly afraid of what she’s about to say.
“I love you.”
Adrian hears it. His grip tightens, his eyes cutting to me like she just handed me something he thought was his. Val cries harder now, but she keeps looking at me.
“I should’ve said it before. But if this is the last chance I get, I need you to hear it.”
“This isn’t your last chance,” I say.
Adrian jerks the gun as if he’s going to prove me wrong. Matteo moves first.
He lunges sideways into the stack of crates by Adrian’s left shoulder, driving them down hard. Wood crashes. Bottles shatter. Adrian flinches toward the sound on pure instinct, the barrel shifting a fraction away from Val’s head.
That fraction is enough. I fire once. The bullet catches Adrian high in the temple. One clean shot. His body goes slack instantly. Val screams, a desperate, primal cry emitting from her throat.
Adrian falls backward, and she goes with him for half a second before I’m across the room, dropping my gun and catching her under the arms. She clings to me hard enough to hurt, then starts patting her own chest and stomach with wild, frantic hands.
“I’m hit,” she gasps. “Sebastian, I’m hit, I’m hit.”
“No, you’re not.” I pull her tighter against me and run my hands over her ribs, her side, her stomach, and then her back. No blood. No wound. “You’re not hit. Look at me. Val. Look at me.”
She does, but barely. Her pupils are blown wide.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Matteo is already on Adrian, kicking the gun away, then crouching long enough to confirm what I already know.
“He’s dead,” he says.
Good.
Val makes a small, wrecked sound and buries her face against my chest. I wrap both arms around her and hold on. Her whole body shakes. Mine probably does too.
“I thought he shot me,” she says into my shirt.
“I know.”
“I thought I was dead.”
“You’re okay.”
“What if the baby’s hurt?” she asks, voice raw with panic.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I tell her gently. “Just take a few deep breaths. It’s over. We’re getting you out of here.”
She lifts her head just enough to look at me. Dirt on her cheek, tears flowing, and that split in her lip makes something savage rise in my throat all over again.
“You rescued me,” she whispers.
I kiss her forehead instead of answering. “Of course I did.”
Matteo steps closer, voice lower now.
“We need to move. Our guys are coming in to handle the body. She doesn’t need to see that.”
He’s right. I slide one arm under Val’s knees and lift her.