Chapter 26
Kiryan
On the screen, Elena had been tied to a wooden chair.
Her hair had fallen in messy strips across her face.
One cheek had been swollen and red, blood dark at the corner of her mouth.
Thick rope had dug across her chest and waist, her wrists yanked out to either side.
She had stared straight into the camera, hazel eyes packed with tears and a fear I knew too damn well.
She had been terrified of what the person on the other end would do.
And that person had been me.
Under the photo, there had been two lines.
—Elena and your child are in my hands.
—If you want them back, come alone.
An address followed: an abandoned warehouse at Pier 8.
Baby.
That word had hit like a bullet, punching clean through my chest.
I had stared at the rope cinched above Elena's belly.
Blood had roared in my ears. The last few weeks had slammed into my skull all at once—her suddenly thinner face, refusing alcohol, only drinking milk in the mornings, the way her hand had drifted to her lower stomach when she thought nobody watched.
In the photo, her arms had been forced wide, but her body had still curled inward, instinctively guarding her abdomen.
And I hadn't noticed.
She had been carrying my child.
She'd known alone, left alone, worked alone—kept herself and the baby alive alone. And I'd let Isabella's lies drag me around by the throat, then tried to shove some late apology in Elena's face like that should've fixed anything.
No wonder she hadn't told me.
I had never given her the kind of safety that let a secret breathe.
I had given her disappointment. Over and over.
I didn't even know how far along she'd been. I didn't know if she'd smiled when she'd found out, or if she'd sat in some clinic bathroom and cried by herself. She'd been so young, already trained to calculate rent and what paint could sell for before she ever thought about herself.
And me—betrayal, death, power shifts—I'd told myself nothing got past me.
I hadn't even seen my wife was pregnant.
"Pull every gun you can get in New York back to me." I slammed my palm on the desk hard enough to sting.
If I got her back tonight, I wouldn't ask her to come back because of a baby. Where she lived, whether she forgave me—that stayed her choice.
But nobody took away her chance to choose. Not in front of me.
The ache in my chest flared into pure rage.
The edge of the desk gave a soft crack under my hand.
"I've already had people pulling surveillance around Pier 8," Feodor said, fingers moving fast across the screen.
He'd been with me for years. He hadn't wasted time comforting me. He hadn't asked if the kid was mine.
"How many people do you want?" He looked up, face tight.
"All of them."
"We pull bodies off the docks, the manor, and the north warehouse. Matteo might hit our shipments at the same time."
I lifted my eyes.
"Let him."
I never let anyone touch my routes. But right then, it had all been numbers on a page.
Elena's life had been hanging by a thread—and she'd been carrying my child.
Nothing mattered more than them. Nothing.
"Whatever it costs," I said, staring straight at Feodor. "Get her out."
He nodded, steady. "Understood."
"Two teams for entry, one to lock down the perimeter. Sniper on the east overpass. Boats to choke the water route on the north."
"Ambulance two blocks out."
"Already set."
"Find me an OB."
Only then had it really landed—how real that threat had been.
A child existed. For real.
And I'd only learned about it from a kidnapping photo.
My phone buzzed again.
Isabella sent a second message.
—Get here before midnight, or she loses the baby first.
Red washed over my vision.
The office went silent for a few seconds.
Feodor saw the line and muttered, "Fucking bitch."
"When you find her," I said, voice low, "leave her alive."
"That isn't your style."
"I want her awake when she watches herself lose everything."
Feodor didn't comment. He turned for the door. I stopped him.
"Before we breach, nobody fires."
"And if they hurt Elena?"
My fingers curled tight.
"Then you kill everyone in that warehouse."
Feodor nodded.
"Now that sounds like you."
The door shut.
I looked back at the photo.
Tears had clung to the corners of Elena's eyes, but she'd kept her jaw locked, glaring forward. She'd been young and slim, but there had been a stubborn steel in her bones—more than anyone in the Rossi family.
She'd picked up my discarded painting gear in the rain. She'd held up two families' precious "respectability" all by herself.
Now she'd been tied to a chair and still hadn't begged the camera for help.
I brushed my thumb over her cheek.
The screen had been cold. No warmth at all.
Last night she'd stood in the bathroom doorway, cheeks burning, pretending nothing happened. This morning she'd drawn a line across the table between us.
No watching her.
No guards in her studio.
No "protection" traded for forgiveness.
I'd agreed.
And then my man had died in the alley outside her studio.
I still hadn't protected her.
The rage had burned so long it finally froze into a hard, clean block of ice.
"Wait for me," I told the photo.
I didn't need her permission this time.
I brought her back, even if I had to tear New York apart to do it.
I stopped the car two blocks from the Pier 8 warehouse. Feodor sat in an unmarked delivery van, reports cracking nonstop through his headset.
"Four on the north side."
"Two at the west door."
"No heat on the roof."
"River lockdown complete."
I stood in the shadows and slid my pistol into the small of my back.
"Matteo's headcount?" I asked.
"At least nine inside. Maybe more," Feodor said. "Main entrance has a jammer. East side has an old cargo door, but it is welded shut from the outside."
"Cut it."
"It'll make noise."
"Wait until I'm inside, then cut."
Feodor looked at me through the open window. "You're really doing what they said? Going in alone?"
"On the surface."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"I don't pay you to feel better."
"You don't pay me enough to stay polite while you go to die."
I looked at him.
Feodor's face stayed calm. If he'd said that, it meant everything controllable had already been handled.
Tonight, the part that couldn't be controlled had been me.
"The old warehouse has an underground drainage run," I said. "Entrance is at the southeast corner. Put two guys in there. Park them under the main floor."
Feodor marked it fast. "You still remember the layout from that long ago?"
"Give me fifteen minutes," I said. "The second she's out of a gun's line, you hit."
"And if it isn't solved in fifteen?"
"Then you rush it."
Feodor pressed his headset, barked the last orders.
I killed my comms and left the earpiece in the van.
Matteo wouldn't believe I'd really shown up alone, but he'd absolutely believe I wouldn't let my people shoot first.
He'd grabbed the one weakness I'd never wanted to admit I had.
I walked to the warehouse by myself.
The iron door at the main entrance stood open. Two men took my gun, then swept my coat and pant legs with a detector.
I went in.
A hanging work light turned the center of the warehouse into a dead-white stage.
The first thing I saw was Elena.
She'd still been tied to the chair. The tape over her mouth was gone, but there was fresh blood around her wrists. The swelling on her cheek was worse than in the photo. The cut on her lip had crusted dark.
No heavy bleeding. Once I confirmed that, I could breathe again.
She saw me. Her hazel eyes went wide.
Then she shook her head.
Once.
Twice.
Faster. Desperate.
Don't come closer.
It's a trap.
She couldn't speak. The ropes bit into her. Her face was bruised and bloodied—and she'd still been worried about me.
Something meaner than anger slammed into my chest.
I wanted to rip the ropes off, haul her up, hold her—make sure she and the baby were safe.
I didn't move.
If you lived long enough, you learned one rule first: never let an enemy see what you wanted to touch most.
But Elena saw anyway.
Our eyes locked.
Her breath hitched.
My gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, then to her belly—only a flicker, barely a heartbeat.
She understood.
The color drained from her face.
She knew I knew.
Her shoulder, the one pressed against the chair back, twitched.
I forced my eyes away.
"Right on time."
Isabella stepped out from behind Elena.
She wore a black dress, hair smooth and perfect. In her hand, she held a gun.
The muzzle aimed at Elena.
I stared at her.
She'd once hidden venom behind the sweetest smile at a party. Now the mask was gone. All that was left was warped obsession.
"Take the gun off her," I said.
Isabella laughed. "You just walked in, and your first words are about her."
"I'm not here for a reunion tour."
Her smile stiffened.
A voice came from deeper inside the warehouse.
"He isn't here to fight with you, either."
Matteo stepped out of the shadows. One eye fixed on me, the other side of his face ruined by an old blade scar that had carved up the socket. He looked thinner than in the photos, but nothing about him was loose or soft.
I saw six gunmen in the open. The rest hid on the second level and behind steel pillars.
I counted positions. I counted the distance between Elena and the nearest exit.
"Where are your people?" Matteo asked.
"They patted me down at the door."
"Pakhan Morozov came empty-handed?"
"You wanted me alone. I came."
Matteo's mouth twitched. "For a woman."
"To end this circus."
I didn't look at Elena.
She still shook her head, once more.
That movement hit my peripheral vision more clearly than a scream.
Isabella walked up to her, lifting the gun on purpose, pressing it near Elena's shoulder.
"See? She still thinks she matters."
My knuckles tightened.
"She does matter," Isabella answered herself. "If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be like this."
She grabbed Elena by the hair and wrenched her face toward me.
Elena winced, a muffled sound scraping out of her.