Chapter 5
There’s a specific form of torture that doesn’t involve pliers or waterboarding. It involves being stuck in Michigan Avenue traffic at two in the afternoon, trapped in a confined space with a woman who’s decided passive-aggressive silence is her new religion.
I checked the tablet on my lap. Casino profit reports, Kovacs troop movements in the south zone, three executions pending approval. Business as usual.
Beside me, Solaia typed furiously on her phone.
The rhythmic tap of acrylic nails on glass was irritating as hell, like water dripping in an isolation cell.
She wore oversized sunglasses covering half her face, probably to hide her swollen eyes from the night before.
Or maybe it was just fashion. With her, the line between emotional drama and style statement was nonexistent.
“Do we really have to do this?” I asked, eyes still on the report. “I have teams that can bring the entire Paris catalog to the living room.”
Solaia didn’t even turn her head. “‘Wedding preparations,’ Cassian. That’s what the contract stipulated. I need flowers. I need cake. I need to pretend I care about the color of the napkins so I don’t scream.”
“You can scream at home. It’s soundproof.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re a moving target,” I retorted, closing the tablet. “Insisting on going out today, with the power vacuum still fresh, is a tactical error.”
“Nobody’s going to attack me on the Magnificent Mile in broad daylight,” she scoffed, finally lowering her phone to look at me over the edge of her sunglasses. “Stop being paranoid. You just want to keep me locked up.”
I was about to explain that “paranoia” is just a word civilians use for “proper preparation” when the world spun.
There was no warning sound. Just the impact—brutal and sudden. A black SUV, heavy as a tank, slammed into the rear of our armored limousine. The sound was metal tearing through metal, a high-pitched screech that made my teeth vibrate.
The force of the impact threw us forward. The seatbelt locked against my chest, cutting off my air. Solaia wasn’t so lucky—she was thrown against the partition with a muffled scream.
“Get down!” I roared, my combat instincts taking control before the car even stopped skidding.
The driver, Enzo, tried to correct the steering, but another vehicle hit the right side, pinning us against the concrete guardrail. Glass shattered. Not our glass—which could withstand rifle fire—but the headlights and mirrors.
“Enzo, evasive! Get us out of here!” I ordered.
No response. I looked forward. The windshield was cracked in a spiderweb pattern, and there was a precise hole on the driver’s side. Enzo was slumped over the wheel, dark blood staining his white collar.
Snipers. Armor-piercing rounds. Kovacs.
“Cassian!” Solaia screamed, huddled on the car floor, covering her head with her hands. Her phone lay on the floor beside her, screen cracked.
I released my seatbelt with a sharp click. I pulled the Glock 19 from my shoulder holster and checked the chamber. Round chambered. Fifteen in the mag. One spare in my pocket.
“Stay on the floor,” I commanded, my voice devoid of any human emotion. It was just data transmission now. “Don’t raise your head. Don’t look. Don’t make a sound.”
“They killed Enzo...” she sobbed, her eyes wide with pure terror.
“They’ll kill us both if you don’t shut up. Stay. On. The. Floor.”
I dragged her by the collar of her cashmere coat to the safest spot, behind the reinforced driver’s seat. She was trembling violently. The doors were locked, but they didn’t need to open them. They’d use explosives or gas in thirty seconds.
I needed to get out. Offense is the only defense when you’re cornered in a tin can.
I assessed the scene through the broken rearview mirrors. Four men exiting the rear SUV. Two from the side one. Armed with compact rifles. Ski masks. Professionals, but arrogant. They expected to catch a scared girl and a lawyer in a suit. They didn’t know who I was before I put on the suit.
I kicked the rear left door with full force, using my body weight to open the heavy armor. I rolled out onto the cold asphalt, using the door as a shield.
The air smelled of burnt rubber and ozone. The first shot hit the armor above my head, sending hot sparks into my hair.
I rose and fired. Two shots. Tap-tap. The first man, the closest one, fell with a hole in the center of his throat. He gurgled, dropping his weapon. I didn’t stop to admire. I shifted targets.
“It’s Varro!” someone shouted. The element of surprise was over.
I advanced. Standing still is death. I ran toward the side SUV, ducking under the line of fire. I felt the air shift as a bullet passed inches from my ear.
An attacker emerged from behind the hood.
Big, slow. He raised his rifle. I closed the distance.
Grabbed the barrel with my left hand, deflected it skyward, and fired my Glock point-blank into his stomach.
Once, twice, three times. He doubled over.
I drove my knee into his nose—the crack of cartilage was loud and wet. He dropped.
I spun, using his body as cover while the other two opened fire. Bullets tore through the dead man's vest in my arms.
I released the body and fired over his shoulder. One shot to the third man's thigh. He went down screaming. I finished him with a shot to the head. Efficiency. No cruelty, no mercy. Just mechanics.
Two remained. They were retreating, realizing the prey had teeth. They ran for the rear SUV. I couldn't let them escape. They'd regroup. They'd come back.
I ran after them. My breathing was controlled, heart beating slow and heavy, pumping ice through my veins.
I reached the driver of the enemy SUV before he could close the door.
Pulled him out by his tactical vest and threw him to the ground.
I stepped on his neck, pressing hard enough to cut off his air, but not to kill. Not yet.
“Who sent you?” I asked, pointing the gun at his face.
He tried to reach for a knife in his boot. Mistake. I shot him in the shoulder. He howled. “Kovacs!” he screamed, spitting blood. “Nikolai Kovacs! He wants the girl!”
That was all I needed. I squeezed the trigger one last time. Silence.
The firefight lasted less than ninety seconds. Traffic around us had stopped. People screamed in their cars, filming with cell phones, but no one got out. Chicago knew when to keep its head down.
I wiped a spatter of blood from my glasses. My white shirt was ruined. Blood on my hands, on my shoes, on the asphalt. I took a deep breath, letting the adrenaline subside, putting the monster back in its cage. I checked my ammunition. Three rounds left. Enough.
I walked back to the wrecked limousine. The rear door was still open.
Solaia was where I'd left her. Curled in a fetal position. She'd raised her head. Her eyes were fixed on me. Or rather, on the dead man ten feet from the car. Her face was pale as wax, lips parted in silent shock.
She had seen everything. The violence. The execution. The ease with which I took lives.
I got into the car. The smell of blood came with me—dense, metallic—drowning out the scent of leather and her floral perfume. I held out my hand to her. My fingers were stained red.
Solaia recoiled, her back hitting the opposite seat. She looked at my hand as if it were a demonic claw. “You... you killed them...” she whispered. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of pure terror.
“They would have killed you,” I replied dryly. “And they would have taken much longer to do it.”
I grabbed her arm. She tried to pull away, but I didn't let her. I pulled her close, checking her body with quick, clinical touches. Head (no blood), ribs (she moaned when I pressed—probable bruise from the seatbelt), legs (intact).
“Are you hurt? Bleeding?” I asked, looking into her eyes.
She was trembling so hard her teeth were chattering. She looked at the bloodstain on my shirt, right above my heart. “Is that yours?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“No.”
She swallowed hard, nausea written across her face. She looked ready to faint. I cupped her face with both hands, forcing her to focus on me. I left bloodstains on her pale cheeks. Baptism by fire.
“Look at me, Solaia.”
She obeyed, her eyes full of tears and horror. “You said no one would attack you in broad daylight. You said I was paranoid.”
I squeezed her face gently. “This is the world. Blood, noise, and men who want to sell you or break you.”
Police sirens began to wail in the distance. Too late to save anyone, right on time to clean up the mess. I released her face.
“That's why you need me,” I finished, grabbing my jacket to cover the mess on my shirt. “Because I'm the only monster on your side.”
Solaia didn't respond. She just stared at the bloodstained hands in her lap—my blood, the enemies' blood—and for the first time since I'd met her, the defiance in her eyes went out.
In its place was only the cold, brutal understanding of reality.
The gilded cage had shattered. And I was the only thing standing between her and the wolves.