Chapter 40 Gabriel
Gabriel
The crunch of gravel hits my ear through the comms like a whisper, not loud or panicked, just enough to tell me someone is stupid enough to step onto my property and breathe.
Rafa’s voice comes through first. “Movement near Savannah’s window,” he says.
My blood turns to ice.
I’m already outside. I didn’t go far. I never go far.
I told her that because it’s true. This place is a fortress.
Juan is with me, and two of my men flank the tree line with night vision on, weapons suppressed, no lights, no shouting.
Because whoever is here wants one thing. A reaction. Noise. Fear. A headline.
I don’t give them any of it.
“Don’t engage until I confirm,” I say into the earpiece, voice low and flat.
Juan’s jaw tightens beside me. “They’re testing you,” he whispers.
“Yes,” I answer.
“They’re testing her,” Juan adds.
That’s what makes it personal.
Cold night air presses against my lungs, pine and dirt and a faint metallic tang from the gate’s old hinges. The kind of smell that always comes before blood, because your body starts preparing even when you refuse to.
I move, fast but silent, footfalls controlled on gravel as I keep to the shadow line and cut behind the shed. The farmhouse lights are low and warm from the inside. From the outside it’s just a shape, a soft target pretending to be peace.
Then I see him.
One figure at the edge of the house. Tall. Male. Hat. Hands visible. Walking like he owns the night. He pauses at Savannah’s window and taps the glass once, deliberate. The sound is small, but in my head it’s a gunshot. He lifts something white and presses it to the pane.
Paper. Photo. Message.
My vision narrows, not rage, focus. Because if Savannah sees whatever that is, it will detonate her nervous system. And if her nervous system detonates, she’ll blame herself. She’ll spiral. That’s the whole point.
I lift my hand slightly to Juan. Stop. Juan freezes. My men hold.
Rafa murmurs in my ear. “No other movement. Just him.”
Good. One problem, not five.
The intruder’s hand moves to the doorknob and tests it, slow and gentle, like he’s trying not to be heard. Like he knows she’s inside holding her breath. Like he wants her to hear the test and understand the lock is the only thing between her and him.
My teeth grind once.
I step out of shadow, just enough to be seen and not enough to be an easy target. “Step away,” I say, voice low.
He stills, but he doesn’t turn right away. He lets the command sit like he wants to feel powerful. Then he turns his head slowly.
And I know him.
Not from my circle. From the footage, from the way Mikhail moves his pieces. Same posture. Same deliberate arrogance. His eyes catch my outline and he smiles, slow and knowing, like he expected me.
“Jefe,” he says softly, Spanish accent with Russian discipline underneath. “You move fast.”
I don’t answer the compliment. I take one step forward, gravel shifting under my boot in a small, controlled sound. “Hands,” I say.
He lifts them slowly. Empty. “Easy,” he murmurs. “I’m only delivering.”
“Delivering what,” I ask.
His gaze flicks back to the window like he wants me to look, wants me to imagine what she’s seeing. I don’t . I keep my eyes on him.
“You’re on my property,” I tell him. “You don’t deliver. You die.”
He smiles wider. “You’re emotional,” he says.
“You’re breathing,” I correct.
His gaze sharpens. He tilts his head like he’s studying a weapon. “You know why I’m here.”
I give him nothing. No agreement. No reaction. He takes one small step back like he’s trying to look harmless. He isn’t. His eyes are too awake, the kind of awake you get when you enjoy fear in other people.
“You can’t hide her,” he says softly. “He will always find her.”
He. Mikhail.
“If you say his name,” I say, “you die slower.”
The man chuckles. “I don’t need to say it,” he murmurs. “She already feels it.”
It’s designed to slice. Designed to make me picture her inside, shaking. I don’t let the image take me. I hold on to the man in front of me and the problem I can fix.
I speak into my earpiece without moving my mouth much. “Juan. Left flank. Two men behind him. Quiet.”
Juan moves in the dark like a shadow. My other men shift positions, circling. The intruder either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he isn’t here to win a fight. He’s here to deliver a message.
He gestures toward the window. “Beautiful picture,” he says softly. “A reminder.”
“Remove it,” I say.
He smiles again. “Ask your wife. She’ll tell you what it’s .”
I take a step closer. Close enough to smell him. Sweat, tobacco, cheap cologne, and underneath it, metallic adrenaline.
“Remove it,” I repeat.
He shrugs, then slowly peels the paper from the glass and holds it up between two fingers like he’s displaying art. I see it clearly now. An old photograph, faded, edges bent like it’s been handled too many times. A child.
Savannah.
Bruised. Beaten. Eyes too big. Too empty.
My chest tightens so hard it burns.
The man watches my face like he’s drinking it. He enjoys knowing he can make me feel something without touching me.
“You don’t get to carry her image,” I say.
“She’s famous,” he murmurs. “In the right circles.”
My blood snaps hot, but I keep my body still. I step closer anyway, close enough that if he twitches wrong, I break him. He doesn’t back up. He likes the danger. He thinks he’s the one holding the leash.
He lifts the photo slightly. “Tomorrow,” he says softly, “there will be a new picture.”
“What picture,” I ask.
“One with her as your wife,” he says, smiling, “crying. Begging. Back where she belongs.”
I don’t move. “You came here to die,” I tell him.
His eyes flicker, a fraction of doubt, because he can feel the circle closing now. Juan is behind him. My men are to his sides. He’s boxed. No clean exit.
“You can kill me,” he says softly, trying to sound calm. “But you can’t erase the memory.”
I don’t debate philosophy. I lean in, voice low enough to be intimate. “Who sent you.”
He smiles like he won’t talk.
Juan tightens behind him.
I watch the intruder’s pupils, the tiny involuntary tells, the flinch that happens when the right name is near.
“I want the name,” I say. “Romano or Mikhail. Which one.”
His eyes flick. Just once.
That’s enough.
“Juan,” I say quietly.
Juan moves fast and silent, clamping a hand on the man’s shoulder and yanking him back into the dark, away from the window. The intruder grunts and tries to twist, but Juan’s forearm locks across his throat.
I step to the window immediately and press two fingers to the glass where the photo was, like I’m wiping residue away, like I’m erasing his touch.
My voice stays steady into the earpiece, directed at Rafa inside. “Tell her it was a false alarm,” I say. “Guard cleared it.”
Rafa hesitates. “Jefe—”
“She doesn’t get the truth,” I cut in, cold. “Not that truth. Not tonight.”
Because that truth is poison. Because that truth will make her blame herself. Because she will sleep if she believes it was nothing.
Juan drags the man farther into the dark with my men following. I walk behind them. The intruder coughs once, then tries to laugh.
“You think she’ll love you when she knows what you do,” he whispers.
I stop and step close, voice quiet. “She already knows what I do,” I say. “She chose anyway.”
His smile twitches.
“You won’t keep her,” he murmurs.
I lean in until I can smell his breath. “Watch,” I whisper.
Juan tightens his hold and forces the man’s wrists forward. Zip ties are already on.
The intruder jerks, trying to resist. I don’t let him. I take his right hand and hold it steady.
“One message,” I say.
Then I break his fingers.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Sharp snaps. No screaming at first, just shock, the body registering reality. Then the strangled sound comes and he folds, and Juan holds him upright while his breath turns into sobbing.
“Now,” I say, “you deliver a message back.”
He shakes, whimpering, and I crouch slightly so he hears every word.
“You tell Mikhail that if he sends another shadow near her window, I will burn his routes until his men starve.” The man shakes harder.
“You tell Romano he doesn’t get to use her sentence.
” He gasps. “And you tell Cassio that if he puts another Alliance man near her again, I will make Alliance blood spill.”
Juan’s eyes flicker. Even Juan feels the weight of that. Italians don’t take threats lightly. But they pushed too far.
The intruder sobs.
I stand and look to Juan. “Bag.”
Juan nods and signals the men. They drag the intruder toward the back shed, soundproofed and prepared, because now we go on offense.
* * *
But first I have to get back to Savannah’s door, because she heard the lock test and she heard the tap, and even if she didn’t see the photo her body knows something came close. She will be sitting in fear, waiting for the past to open the door.
I return to the house. The hallway smells like tea and wood and the faint soap from her shower. Domestic. Soft. It makes the violence feel louder.
I move quietly down the hall and stop outside her door. My voice stays low. “Savannah.”
Silence, then her whisper, shaky. “Yes.”
“It’s gone,” I tell her gently.
Her breath catches. “What was it,” she whispers.
I lie, because this lie protects her. “Animal,” I say. “False alarm. Rafa scared it off.”
There’s a pause.
“It tapped,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say softly. “You stayed locked inside. You did right.”
Another pause, then her voice goes tiny. “I was scared.”
“And you stayed,” I tell her. “That’s strength.”
Her breathing shakes through the door.
“I’m here,” I add.
“Okay,” she whispers, like she’s holding on by a thread.
I close my eyes for one second, because the thing they keep trying to steal isn’t her body. It’s her belief that safety can exist.
I open my eyes and step away, back into the kitchen, back into the war, because it just walked up to her window and tried to turn her past into a weapon.
Tomorrow, someone will answer.
Tonight, Savannah drinks tea. Tonight, she sleeps.
And I keep her safe.
Even if I have to burn the world to do it.