REBECCA
The ride in the van is long and heavy. I know it was stupid, but a big part of me had still hoped—deep down, foolishly—that we'd find Rachel among the rescued women.
That this nightmare would end tonight with her safe in my arms. But of course, she wasn't there.
Yeah, yeah… I know. Stupid. But the disappointment still sits like a stone in my chest.
I sit in the back with the girls, trying to offer what little comfort I can.
"You're safe now," I tell them softly, over and over. "No one's going to hurt you anymore. We're taking you somewhere safe."
Most of them just stare at me with vacant or distrustful eyes.
Some are shaking so badly they can't stop.
Others look at me like I'm just another person who might betray them.
I see every kind of emotion in their faces—fear, exhaustion, numbness, brokenness—but none of them hold even a flicker of real hope. It breaks my heart.
I look at these girls, and all I can see is Rachel. Is this what she looks like now? Hollow eyes that have forgotten how to dream? A body that flinches at every touch? A spirit that's been ground down until there's almost nothing left?
The thought hits me like a blade between the ribs.
Would I want her back like this?
The question is so ugly, so selfish, so loaded that I immediately shove it down, horrified at myself for even thinking it.
Of course I want her back. Alive. Breathing.
No matter what they've done to her. I'd take her broken and empty if that's what she is now.
I'd carry her. I'd hold her through every nightmare.
I'd spend the rest of my life trying to bring her back to life.
But God… the guilt that comes with that thought is crushing. Because what if she doesn't want to come back? What if the girl I remember—the one who laughed too loud and dreamed too big—is gone forever? What if saving her means forcing her to live in a body and mind that have become a prison?
I swallow hard, my throat burning, and I force myself to keep talking to the girls in the van. Soft words. Gentle promises. Lies I hope will become truths. But inside, I'm screaming.
I've spent four years chasing my sister's ghost, refusing to let myself imagine the worst because the worst would destroy me. Now I'm staring at it. At what might be waiting for me at the end of this road.
And I'm terrified that even if I find her…
I might not be able to save her. Not really.
I glance through the front windshield of the van, toward where Alessio is riding in the lead SUV.
For the first time, I wonder if he understands this kind of fear.
The kind that comes from loving someone so much that their pain might break you worse than your own.
I look back at the girls and feel my chest cave in a little more. Rachel… please still be in there somewhere. Please let me find you before there's nothing left to save.
At one point, I pull out my phone and show them Rachel's picture.
"Does anyone know her?" I ask, not ashamed of how my voice is cracking. "Her name is Rachel. She was taken four years ago. Please… if you've seen her…"
They all shake their heads. Some look away. One girl whispers, "I'm sorry," and it nearly undoes me.
The night feels endless. When the convoy finally slows and turns through massive iron gates, I lean forward to look out the windshield. A huge, beautiful mansion rises ahead: high walls, armed guards at the perimeter, floodlights sweeping the grounds. It looks like a fortress disguised as a palace.
The van stops in front of a grand set of steps leading up to the entrance.
Alessio appears at the open side door a moment later, offering me his hand. I take it and step out, staring up at the building in disbelief.
"What is this?" I ask, incredulous.
"You said we needed a place for them," he answers simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "So I bought this."
I'm speechless. My mouth opens, then closes again. He bought this. Because I said we needed it?
"When did you even have time for that?"
He raises an eyebrow, that arrogant little smirk tugging at his lips. "Me? I have people for that."
I shake my head, half-laughing, half-stunned. "You're incredible, you know that?"
He puffs up like a proud rooster, chest expanding, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. "I've been told that once or twice."
I roll my eyes, but I can't quite hide the small smile tugging at my mouth. Even after everything—the fight, the raid, the blood, the heartbreak—he still manages to do this to me.
The women are being gently helped out of the van behind us. They're here. They're safe.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I’m moving in the right direction. And the man standing next to me, with his hand warm on my lower back, is the reason why.
I watch the women being led up the wide steps of the mansion.
Some are crying quietly. Others are too numb to make a sound.
They look so small, so fragile under the bright lights.
None of them is older than maybe twenty-one.
The need to stay with them is nearly overwhelming, and I take a step forward, but Alessio's hand catches my wrist.
"Nope," he orders firmly. "You need to eat, shower, and sleep. In that order."
I stare at him. There's no room for argument in his voice, in the set of his jaw, in the way his eyes are scanning me for any sign of exhaustion or injury. He's ready to fight me on this if he has to.
And that's what hits me hardest.
He cares.
Not in the fake, possessive way I expected from a man like him. This is real. He's not just keeping me around because I'm useful or convenient. He's looking at me like making sure I'm okay actually matters to him.
Nobody has cared about me—really cared—in four years.
Not since Rachel disappeared. I've been alone in this fight for so long that I'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone worry whether I'd eaten, or slept, or pushed myself too far.
And here he is—this mafia man who tortured someone just a few hours ago, who I watched shoot people without hesitation—telling me to rest like it's the most important thing in the world right now.
For all my bravery, I've never actually killed anyone.
I was ready to tonight if I had to. I know I could.
But I'm grateful I didn't have to. And I know, deep down, that Alessio played a huge role in that, keeping me out of the worst of the fighting, shielding me even when I wanted to throw myself into the middle of it.
Most disturbing is that instead of feeling resentful or angry about it… I'm grateful.
The realization settles over me like a heavy blanket.
I could really, really fall for this man.
The thought terrifies me. He's the kind of man who could break my heart into pieces if I let him.
Dangerous. Possessive. Complicated. The kind of man who tortures people for information and buys mansions on a whim to house trafficking victims. And yet…
he's also the man who held me while I cried over Rachel.
The man who came for me at the clubhouse.
The man who's looking at me right now like my well-being is more important than the chaos we just walked out of.
I don't know what to do with that. I don't know what to do with him. So I just nod, letting him lead me away from the women and toward the SUV.
For tonight, at least, I'll let someone take care of me. Even if it scares the hell out of me.
We're back at the penthouse. I ate—barely tasting the food, I ate it so fast—and now I feel gorged, but a bit better, and I'm lying in his massive marble bathtub.
Hot water rises up to my chest, and bubbles surround me on all sides.
The exhaustion of the night is finally catching up with me, but my mind is still spinning.
Alessio kneels behind me, shirt sleeves rolled up, his strong hands gently washing my hair.
His fingers work through the strands with surprising care, then move to my neck and shoulders, massaging knots I didn't even know were there.
I let out a low, involuntary moan as the tension starts to melt away.
"You have magic hands, you know that?" I murmur, eyes half-closed.
He chuckles softly, the sound warm against my ear. "I've heard that one before too."
I swipe a handful of bubbles back at him over my shoulder. He laughs again, low and rough, then leans in and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of my neck. Goosebumps erupt across my skin, racing down my arms and spine.
"So," he asks deceptively casually, still massaging my shoulders, "are you going to tell me your secret now?"
"What secret?" I ask, trying to sound innocent.
"Where you learned to shoot like that."
I freeze. The warm water suddenly feels colder. Flashes hit me like a slideshow I can't stop.
Daddy's hands over mine on the rifle. "No, Becca, not like that. Hold it with both hands. Firm. Breathe out when you squeeze the trigger."
Him coming home from deployment, still in his 82nd Airborne uniform, smelling like dust and gun oil, scooping me up like I weighed nothing.
Long weekends at the cabin deep in the Idaho woods, no neighbors for miles. "You always have to be prepared, Becca. Always." Teaching me how to climb trees, scale walls, and skin a deer. Mom showing me how to cure the hide into leather.
"We live off the land out here. Nobody's coming to save us if the world ends."
I shake my head, trying to push the memories back down.
"Nothing big, really," I lie carefully. "My parents were preppers."
"Preppers?" Alessio asks, his hands stilling on my shoulders.
"Yeah. You know… being ready for the end of the world. Zombie apocalypse. Asteroid. That kind of shit."