Chapter 10
Yelena
Sal woke me with one hand hovering above my shoulder, close enough that I felt his warmth before he touched me.
Even half asleep, I felt his restraint. His discipline. He had carried me to bed sometime before dawn. He could have shaken me awake. Instead, he waited until my eyes opened and I chose to look at him.
“Little one,” he said. “I have frustrating news. I think that we have to move away from here.”
The room was grey with early light. My body felt heavy. The place where he had spanked me remained warm beneath my pajamas, a deep tenderness that brought back his lap, his hand, and the ugly blanket wrapped around me afterward.
Then his words settled.
“Gianni? Because of him.”
“His people haven’t entered the building. But as we discovered, Astor Street is no longer secure.”
I pushed upright. Sal was fully dressed. Dark suit. Open collar. Gun beneath his jacket. The cut on his cheek had begun to close beneath fresh strips.
“What time is it?”
“Six-twelve.”
“Too early!”
He grinned. “Sorry, honey.”
“The world doesn’t start until seven am, officially.”
“I’ll try to remember that. We leave in eight minutes.”
He crossed to the dresser and set down a stack of clothes. Black trousers. Sweater. Underwear folded between them. Socks.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“You packed my underwear.”
“I moved it from Katerina’s bag to this one.”
“Like I said, you packed my underwear.”
“I like to be efficient.”
I threw the blanket aside and stood. The soreness in my ass made me suck in a breath.
Sal went still.
His gaze dropped. Not to my breasts. Not between my legs. To my face.
“Pain, Little One?”
“No.” I winced.
“Yelena.”
“It’s more like tenderness.”
“Sharp?”
“No, Daddy.”
The title changed his breathing. Barely, but enough to notice.
“Any bruising? Marks?”
“I haven’t checked, Daddy.”
“I’ll check for you.”
Heat went through me.
He waited.
That made it worse.
“Later,” I said.
“Yes, little one.”
He turned his back while I changed.
It should not have been erotic. A man granting privacy in a room was not erotic.
Except Sal stood three feet away, broad shoulders beneath dark wool, his hands loose at his sides. He had seen my bare ass over his lap. He had rubbed lotion into the marks he made. He knew exactly what was hidden beneath my trousers.
Still, he did not look until I told him I was dressed.
Three bags stood near the bedroom door. One held clothes and toiletries. One held laptops, paper files, secure drives, cash, and weapons.
The third held my scratchy blanket.
The folded agreement rested on top inside a leather document sleeve. Beneath it sat the coloring book, pencils, and the storybook about the firebird.
I stared into the bag.
Sal lifted the operational case.
“You packed these?” I asked, incredulous. “The pencils?”
“Of course.”
“We’re evacuating because Gianni found us.”
“Yes, bella.”
“And you packed coloring pencils?”
“You need them.”
“I need a passport.”
“That’s in the black case. We actually have space for both.”
I touched the edge of the blanket. Coarse wool scraped my fingertip.
“You put them with the essential things.”
He looked at me as if I had said something strange.
“They are essential things. You know that.”
I shut the bag.
“Ready,” I said.
His gaze stayed on me for another second.
Then he offered his hand.
I took it.
We left through the freight elevator.
The halls were empty. Staff had already gone, except for the guards, who waited at each turn, dressed like businessmen except for the weapons held low against their legs.
No one spoke.
In the underground garage, four black SUVs idled near the exit. Beyond them sat two ordinary sedans. Grey. Forgettable. Salt streaked along the doors. Sal guided me toward the sedans.
“The convoy takes Lake Shore Drive south,” he said. “A second team joins near the expressway. They’ll continue toward Midway.”
“Airport cameras will see them.”
“Right.”
“And anyone watching believes I’m leaving Chicago?”
“That is the hope.”
“What if the garage is watched?”
“Then they’ll see six vehicles leave. The convoy exits first. We wait ninety seconds and take the service ramp.”
He opened the rear door of the first sedan.
Then stopped.
“Front or back?”
I looked at him.
“Where do you want to sit?” he asked.
It was a stupid question.
But for some reason it hit me.
In my father’s cars, I sat where I was placed. At the rear right if he wanted to speak to me. Rear left if another man had purchased the privilege of his attention. Between guards when he did not trust me.
This was my choice.
“Front,” I said.
Sal closed the rear door and opened the passenger door. I got in. He placed my private bag at my feet himself. The operational case went in the back.
The convoy rolled out. Dark windows. Identical vehicles. One after another.
We waited. Sal checked his watch. The driver watched the mirror. A guard in the second sedan lifted two fingers. Then we moved.
No racing. No squealing tires. We followed a concrete service lane between pipes and dumpsters, climbed a narrow ramp, and emerged into a Chicago morning that looked offensively normal.
People carried coffee. A man walked a dog. A bus stopped at the corner. Normal life, carrying on.
Sal handed me a phone.
“Secure. One contact for me. One for Kiryl. One emergency number that reaches Dante.”
I turned it over. “No tracker?”
“There is one, disabled at present. You may enable it if you want us to find you.”
“If I leave?”
He loked at me with those gorgeous brown eyes. “If you leave.”
“You think it’s a good decision to let me leave while someone’s hunting me?”
“I’ve made worse.”
“Falling for you.”
He held my gaze, and I saw deep tenderness there. Who was this man who held so much power, restrained so much violence, and felt so deeply?
“Anyway, your life is your own. I want you to feel like you can leave. You’re not a prisoner. Of course, I’d prefer if you stayed.”
Sal looked out the window, but I saw the emotion on his face.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Lake Geneva.”
“Wisconsin?”
“Yes. Caruso property. Old. Gianni has never encountered the owner or the company.”
“How long?”
“About ninety minutes if traffic cooperates. Two hours if it behaves like traffic.”
“And Kiryl?”
“He’s travelling separately.”
“Where?”
“Currently on the ground. His Atlantic flight was a false route. It landed in Canada, filed onward, then changed passengers. Tonio and Pietro brought him back across the border using different documents.”
My head turned sharply. “He crossed twice in one day?”
“He slept through most of it.”
“Tonio fed him?”
“Continuously, according to Tonio.”
That sounded plausible.
“We’ll bring him to us, so we’re safe. Then we’ll work out how to take down Gianni Scordato.”
Buildings became low suburbs. Suburbs became bare trees, wet fields, and long roads cut beneath a pale sky. The driver changed routes twice without warning, but Sal explained each turn.
“Vehicle behind us for six miles.”
“Is it following?”
“Probably not. But it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
The car disappeared after the second deviation.
Sal’s hand rested on the center console. Large. Still. A faint red line crossed his palm where my nail had cut him during Kiryl’s escape.
I put my fingers over it, and traced the line.
His fingers turned beneath mine, and our palms met.
He did not lace our hands. I did it.
The change in him was small. His jaw tightened. His thumb moved once along mine. My body responded as if he had touched me beneath my clothes.
I remembered lying across his lap. The controlled force of his hand. His erection pressed beneath me. His refusal when I guided him toward my wet pussy.
Not tonight.
The denial had been care. I understood that.
My body remained furious about it.
The warmth in my ass had softened into a steady reminder. Every movement against the seat rubbed the tender skin beneath my trousers. Sal’s hand around mine made the memory sharper.
I wanted his palm there again.
Not striking.
Holding. Spreading. Touching the heat he had made.
I shifted.
His eyes moved to my face.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
His thumb stopped. The silence thickened. I stared through the windshield and imagined putting his hand on my thigh. Imagined sliding it upward until his fingers felt how wet the memory had made me.
Instead, I squeezed his hand once.
He squeezed back.
Eventually, we arrived. The house stood beyond a long private road bordered by leafless trees and old stone walls. It was not grand in the way my father preferred. No columns. No gates built to impress.
Dark timber. Grey stone. A broad porch facing the lake. Bare branches framed cold water bright beneath the morning sky.
Two guards waited near the garage.
Sal exited first. He scanned the drive, the roofline, and the trees before opening my door.
“You may stay in the main bedroom,” he said. “It has a lake view and an interior lock.”
“Where are you?”
“Across the hall.”
“Not with me?”
“No. It’s safer that way.”
The disappointment came hot and unreasonable.
He lifted my private bag. The blanket showed through the open top.
“Kiryl arrives this afternoon,” he continued. “Guest wing on the other side of the house. You may inspect it before he comes.”
“Of course I’ll inspect it.”
“I assumed as much. You’re the most protective older sister I’ve ever met.”
He carried the bag inside.
The entry smelled of old wood, cold stone, and a fire someone had lit before our arrival. No staff waited. Only guards and quiet. I followed him upstairs.
The bedroom had windows facing the lake. A wide bed. Plain cream walls. A chair beside the fireplace.
Sal put my agreement in the nightstand drawer. It felt important that I was near it. The coloring pencils went on the desk. He laid the scratchy blanket across the foot of the bed and smoothed it once with his broad hand.
The sight tightened my throat. He was trying so hard to make me feel at home.
“Anything else you need?” he asked.
I stood close enough to smell his cologne.
Kiryl was alive. He was coming to me.
I had money. Documents. A phone. An unlocked door.
I could leave if I wanted to.