Chapter Twenty-Three
Mila’s POV
The cold gnawed at my exposed skin, sinking into my marrow until my bones felt like they were made of ice. I shifted my weight, the ropes biting harshly into my wrists. I didn’t let out a sound. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a whimper.
Three of them were guarding me. They’d been laughing for the last hour, drinking from a flask and trading stories about back-alley deals in Naples.
One of them, a man with a jagged scar running through his eyebrow and fingers that smelled of cheap tobacco, walked toward me. He leaned down, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the oil-stained floor.
“Pretty little thing,” he murmured. His voice was like sandpaper. “Hard to believe you’re the prize everyone’s bleeding for. You don’t look like much more than a scared girl.”
I looked up at him, my gaze level. I didn’t blink. I didn’t recoil. He reached out, his hand moving slowly, mockingly. He brushed the pad of his thumb against my cheek, his skin rough and smelling of salt.
I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate.
As his finger moved toward my jaw, I lunged. I snapped my head forward and clamped my teeth down on the fleshy meat of his hand, between the thumb and forefinger. I bit down with every ounce of fury I had been bottling up since they snatched me from the library. I tasted blood.
The guard let out a strangled yelp and tried to pull away, but I locked my jaw. He swung his other hand, a heavy, open-palmed blow that caught me across the temple.
The world tilted. Stars exploded behind my eyelids, and the metallic taste in my mouth intensified as he finally wrenched his hand free.
“Bitch!” he roared, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Red was already staining his sleeve.
The other men laughed.
“Look at that, Marco. The kitten has claws. Or teeth, anyway,” one of them said.
I still didn’t cower.
I’m not a helpless girl.
I am Alexei Lobanov’s wife.
I was a queen in a world of monsters, and I was carrying the heir to a throne built on bone and iron. If I had to die here, in this hollowed-out shell of a building, I would die with my head held high. I would die fighting. Because that was what it meant to be a Lobanov.
The heavy steel doors at the far end of the warehouse groaned open. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the vast space.
A man whom they all greeted reverently walked in.
Enzo Moretti, definitely.
He looked out of place in the grime, wearing a charcoal overcoat that cost more than most men made in a year. He walked straight to me.
“Mila,” he said, almost gently. “You seem to have your father’s eyes. It’s a pity you didn’t inherit his cowardice. It might have kept you safer.”
I spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at his polished shoes. “My father is a ghost. He has nothing to do with me.”
Enzo wiped his shoe on the concrete, his expression darkening. “Actually, he has everything to do with this. He killed one of my best men years ago. I looked everywhere for him. But when you surfaced, I decided you’d have to do. You’re the price he’s going to pay.”
“I know Alexei is coming.” I looked Enzo directly in the eye, a wry smile emanating from my lips. “And I hope he kills you slowly.”
Enzo’s mask slipped for a fraction of a second. I saw the flicker of anger.
He recovered quickly, reaching out to grip my chin, his fingers bruising.
He turned to his men, and they gathered around him. I couldn’t hear everything they said, but I heard the gist of it.
“He won’t find her.”
“We’re moving her at dawn.”
“Yes, the pier.”
“Get the crates loaded.”
Then Enzo left without looking in my direction.
The warehouse settled into a tense, vibrating silence. The guards moved with a new sense of urgency, their shadows dancing against the walls as they shifted crates of weapons and contraband.
I closed my eyes, trying to regulate my breathing. I counted the seconds, the minutes. I focused on the cold, using it to sharpen my senses.
The lights flickered. It was subtle at first.
One of the guards looked up, squinting. “The generator is acting up again. This place is a dump.”
Then the lights flickered again, more violently this time. The hum died, replaced by a low, rhythmic throb that seemed to come from the very earth.
One of the guards, a younger man I hadn’t seen before, unholstered his weapon. “I’ll check the external lines.”
He stepped out through a side door into the swirling white of the blizzard. The door swung shut behind him.
One minute passed. Two.
The lights gave one final, dying strobe and went out completely. The warehouse was plunged into a thick, suffocating darkness, broken only by the dim red glow of the exit signs.
“Vinnie?” Marco called out. “Vinnie, get back in here!”
There was no answer. Only the whistle of the wind through the gaps in the tin.
“Go check,” one of them told another.
Another guard moved toward the door. He pushed it open, his flashlight cutting a bright, desperate beam through the snow.
“Vinnie? You out—”
Crack.
The guard jerked backward as if hit by a physical hammer, his flashlight spinning across the floor.
Then, the world exploded. The corrugated metal walls of the warehouse didn’t just rattle; they shredded. Bullets began to rain through the walls like a hailstorm of fire. The sound was deafening—a rhythmic, high-velocity thud-thud-thud as heavy caliber rounds tore through the structure.
Men were screaming. I saw one of the guards dive behind a stack of wooden pallets, only for the wood to disintegrate into splinters under a barrage of lead. He slumped over, his chest a ruin of red.
The air was thick with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. I ducked as low as I could in my chair, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I saw the silhouettes of the Italians moving frantically, their muzzle flashes lighting up the dark like strobe lights. But they were shooting at ghosts. The return fire was surgical, precise, and utterly relentless. One by one, they dropped.
Enzo was near me in an instant, shouting orders.
Before I knew what was going on, rough hands untied the ropes that held me down and grabbed me, forcing me to stand. They dragged me with them and, just as they yanked me behind a crate, I caught sight of a familiar shadow stepping through the smoke.
Alexei.
His suit was black as sin, his face carved from war, his gun steady.
And, behind him, another shadow. One I couldn’t deny recognizing, even after all these years.
My father.