Chapter 42 Gabriel
Gabriel
Savannah’s breathing changes first. It slows. Not fully asleep, but close, hovering in that fragile in between where her body is finally tired enough to stop fighting.
I stay in the hallway anyway, back against the wall, knees bent, gun within reach, knife on my ankle, phone in my hand with the screen dimmed so the light won’t crawl under her door.
Because when she sleeps, that’s when the past tries to climb the walls. And tonight the past walked up to her window.
I listen to her through the wood. One inhale, a pause, one exhale.
The smallest tremor in it, like her body still expects a hand to grab her out of the dark.
I hate that I can hear it. I hate that I can’t pull it out of her with my bare hands and throw it into the fire.
I keep my face still, keep my jaw loose, keep my anger contained, because rage leaks.
And if she wakes up and hears rage in the hallway, she’ll think she caused it.
Rafa comes down the hall quietly and stops two feet away. He doesn’t speak right away. Good. Silence is safer when she’s drifting. I lift my eyes to him, and he whispers, barely audible, “He’s in the shed.”
I nod once. No emotion.
Juan appears behind Rafa, face hard. Luca follows a second later, phone still in his grip like it’s welded there. Luca mouths one word.
Alive.
Good. Alive means useful. Alive means information. Alive means I can turn his presence into something that hurts the people who sent him.
I stand slowly. I don’t look at Savannah’s door again, because if I look, I’ll be tempted to go inside, and if I go inside, I’ll bring the war smell with me. Metal. Sweat. Adrenaline. Like a stain I can’t wash off. She doesn’t need that in her lungs.
“Stay here,” I tell Rafa, voice low. “If she opens the door, you speak soft. You keep her calm. You don’t tell her anything.”
Rafa nods once. He understands. He has sisters. He has daughters. He knows what it looks like when fear becomes a second skin.
I turn to Juan. “You with me.”
Juan’s eyes flash. Always.
Luca steps forward, voice barely above a breath. “Jefe. Romano’s line is lighting up. Cassio’s too.”
Of course. They feel movement. They smell blood in the air. They want to steer it. I don’t answer calls when I’m about to pull information out of a man.
I walk toward the back of the house with Juan behind me and Luca behind him, two men trailing them, quiet and efficient. The back door opens without a sound, and cold hits my face the second I step outside, pine, damp earth, that sharp winter bite that makes your teeth ache if you breathe too deep.
The shed sits thirty yards from the house. No lights. Just shadow and pine and the black outline of the roof. I cross the yard on silent steps, gravel crunching under my boot, and my stomach tightens. Tonight even the smallest sound feels dangerous. Juan moves like he was born in the dark.
* * *
The shed door opens with a soft creak.
Inside, it smells like metal and wood and antiseptic. Cold. The intruder is strapped to a chair, zip ties tight around wrists and ankles. His right hand is swelling, fingers bent wrong, already turning colors. His eyes are wide now, not brave anymore, not amused.
Juan stands behind him with one hand on the chair back like he’s holding a leash. Luca stays near the door, phone in hand, recording audio, not because we need trophies, but because we need proof. Proof is currency in Italian politics. Proof is a knife in Russian politics.
I step close and crouch slightly so the man has to look at me. He tries to speak fast through panic, like speed will save him.
“I did what I was told,” he says quickly. “I didn’t touch her.”
My voice stays cold. “You tapped her window.”
He swallows hard. “I had to,” he whispers.
“Who,” I say.
One word. No warmth.
He hesitates. Juan’s hand tightens on the chair, and the man flinches like the chair itself bit him. His voice cracks. “Sergei. I report to Sergei.”
I don’t blink. “Sergei who.”
He swallows again. “Sergei Volkov.”
The name means nothing to the wrong people. To me, it’s a map. I glance at Luca, and Luca’s eyes narrow like he recognizes it. Good.
“Who gave you the photo,” I ask.
The man shakes his head fast. “I didn’t—”
I tilt my head. Juan shifts slightly behind him, just enough. The man’s breathing stutters and panic cracks him open.
“I didn’t print it,” he blurts. “It was given to me.”
“By who.”
“My handler,” he says. “Sergei.”
“Where did Sergei get it,” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he whispers.
I lean closer. “You do. You’re just deciding whether to live.”
His throat bobs. His lips tremble. Then he says it.
“She came from a file,” he whispers.
I hold still. “A file.”
He nods fast. “Old. Bratva file. Photos. Dates. Notes.”
My blood turns cold, because notes means someone wrote about her like she was inventory. I keep my voice even.
“Where is the file.”
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Sergei keeps it.”
“Where does Sergei keep it.”
“I swear—”
I stand. I don’ shout. I don’t get louder. I just gesture once to Juan.
Juan steps closer.
The man’s panic spikes. “Wait. Wait,” he blurts. “Mikhail has it. The Pakhan. it’s in his private archive. Sergei only checks it when he’s assigned a task.”
I inhale slowly.
Good. Now we have a target.
“Why come tonight,” I ask.
“To remind you,” he whispers. “To remind her.”
My jaw tightens. “You weren’t supposed to be seen by her.”
He hesitates, then his face shifts with reluctant truth. “She was supposed to feel it.”
My stomach tightens, because that isn’t strategy. That’s cruelty. That’s a man reaching into a woman’s memory just to watch her bleed without leaving a mark.
“Who ordered that.”
“Mikhail,” he says, voice breaking.
I stare at him for one beat, then ask the real question. “Was it only Mikhail.”
The man freezes. His eyes flick. He knows what I mean. Italian hands. Alliance pressure. Romano’s hunger for control.
I step closer. “Who else benefits if she breaks.”
He trembles. “I don’t —”
“Answer.”
His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. His gaze slides to Luca’s phone. The recording. The proof. He swallows.
Then he whispers, like it costs him.
“Romano asked for it.”
The shed goes still. Even Juan’s breathing changes. Luca’s eyes sharpen, blade finding the soft spot.
“Say it again,” Luca murmurs.
The man flinches. “Romano. He asked Mikhail for pressure. Something to make her unstable. To make the cartel look unable to protect their treaty.”
Romano.
So he’s not just manipulating Cassio. He’s coordinating with the Bratva. That’s betrayal at the level of war.
My jaw locks so hard it aches. “What did Romano offer.”
“Information,” the man whispers. “Routes. Meeting times. Plans. He offered access.”
That word is a knife. Access means doors. Access means keys. Access means a woman being reachable.
“Does Cassio know.”
The man hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. Romano kept it private.”
Of course he did. Cassio would see it as an insult if Romano went around him. Romano is trying to become king without wearing the crown.
I look at Luca. “Send that.”
Luca’s eyes widen slightly. “You want Cassio to hear this.”
“Yes.”
Juan’s jaw tightens. “That starts a fire.”
“Good,” I say, because fires cleanse, and Cassio needs to understand one thing.
Savannah is not a token to be traded between men.
Savannah is a line.
Cross it, and everything burns.
I turn back to the intruder. “Where is Sergei.”
“I don’t know his safe house,” he whispers. “He moves.”
“How do we find him.”
“I can call,” he says, voice cracking. “I can lure him.”
Juan makes a quiet sound that isn’t quite a laugh and isn’t quite a threat. “Sure. And you’ll lure us into an ambush.”
The man shakes fast. “No. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
Anything. Men always say anything when they’re afraid.
“You’ll do one thing,” I tell him. “You’ll send a message.”
He swallows hard. “What message.”
I lean in close enough that he can smell my control. “You tell Sergei it worked. That she was rattled. That I’m going to church tomorrow.”
Luca’s eyes narrow. Juan’s mouth tightens.
The man stares at me, confused. “Church.”
“Yes,” I say. “Because if Sergei thinks I’m walking into the church, he’ll move to watch. And if Sergei moves, I find him.”
“I’ll die,” he whispers.
“You already came here to die,” I say. “This is the only version where you might not.”
His breathing turns ragged, then he nods. Fast. “Yes. Yes. I’ll send it.”
Luca steps forward with his phone, voice-to-text ready. “Speak.”
The intruder’s voice shakes as he talks into the device. “Sergei. It worked. She’s shaken. Gonzalez is furious. He thinks church is the answer. He’ll be there tomorrow. He’ll try to control the narrative.”
Luca ends it and sends.
One message. One hook in the water.
Now we wait for the bite.
* * *
I turn away, stepping toward the door, and Luca’s phone buzzes again. He glances down and his face shifts.
“Cassio,” he says quietly.
Perfect timing.
I take the call as I step outside into the cold, pine hitting my lungs again, night wrapping around my shoulders like a cloak.
“Gonzalez,” Cassio says. Clipped. Controlled. Not angry yet.
“Cassio,” I reply, respectful but not soft.
A beat. Then he speaks. “Where is my sister.”
There it’s . Possession disguised as concern.
“Safe,” I say.
“Safe where,” he presses.
I don’t answer that. I give him a truth he can use instead. “Romano is coordinating with Mikhail,” I say. “He sent a man to my property with a childhood photo of your sister.”
Silence. Pure silence.
Then Cassio’s voice goes low. “What.”
I don’t repeat it gently. Cassio doesn’t need gentle. He needs precision.
“A Bratva courier,” I say. “At her window. Photo pressed to the glass. Lock was tested. Message delivered.”
Cassio’s breathing changes. Not fear. Rage.
“Who told you Romano,” he asks, tight.
“Your courier told me,” I reply. “Recorded.”
Cassio’s voice turns colder. “Send it.”
“It’s already on its way.”
A pause, then his voice goes quiet with weight. “If this is true, Romano is dead.”
I don’t argue. I just breathe, because death doesn’t undo what was pressed to her glass.
Cassio hardens again, because that’s his armor. “And you moved her without permission.”
“I moved my wife,” I correct.
“She is Alliance blood,” he says.
“And she is under treaty,” I reply evenly. “Under my protection. And no man, Italian or Russian, touches her again.”
Cassio exhales. His voice stays controlled, but there’s a crack in it. “You’re making this personal.”
“It became personal when someone stood at her window,” I say.
Cassio goes quiet for a beat. Then, rougher, less polished, he says, “Put her on the phone.”
No.
I don’t let his voice reach her tonight.
“No,” I say.
Cassio’s voice tightens. “You refuse me.”
“Yes,” I reply. “Tonight.”
Silence stretches.
Then Cassio’s voice shifts abruptly. “She’s writing again.”
I go still. “What.”
“She used to write,” he says, clipped. “After… after she came home. She stopped. Years ago.”
My chest tightens, because she is writing again. Not pretty. Not polished. Honest. A way to bleed without dying.
Cassio’s voice drops lower. “If Romano touched that part of her—”
“He didn’t,” I cut in. “Not tonight.”
A beat.
“Keep her safe,” Cassio says.
Not an order. A plea disguised as command.
“I am,” I answer.
Cassio exhales, then steels himself again. “I’ll handle Romano.”
I don’t doubt it, but I don’t trust his version of handling. He may kill Romano, then try to “secure” Savannah afterward.
I won’t allow it.
“Cassio,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Your sister decides,” I tell him. “You don’t .”
Silence. Then, quiet: “…Understood.”
The line clicks dead.
* * *
I stand outside in the cold for one beat longer than necessary, breathing in pine and breathing out war, then I turn back toward the house. None of this matters if Savannah wakes up and feels alone.
I move down the hallway. Rafa is still stationed near her door. He nods slightly when he sees me. I crouch near the wood, and I don’t knock loud.
I whisper, “Savannah.”
Silence.
Then her voice comes, sleepy and fragile. “Yes.”
I keep mine soft. “You’re okay. Go back to sleep.”
A pause. “Are you here.”
“I’m here.”
Another pause, then a quiet breath. “Okay.”
I sit back down in the hallway, same spot, back to the wall, gun in reach, phone on silent. My eyes stay on her door like it’s a heartbeat, because tonight she gets to sleep.
And tomorrow Sergei bites the hook. Romano’s betrayal becomes a weapon I can put in Cassio’s hands. Mikhail loses another piece.
And Savannah wakes up in the morning still inside her body.
Still choosing.
Still alive.