Chapter 44 Gabriel
Gabriel
The scent of soap is strong in the steam. Fresh. Too fresh. Like it is trying to erase what happened.
She washes like she is scrubbing a stain off her skin that no one else can see. Palms, fingers, under the nails, again and again. The water runs clear the whole time, but she keeps going.
I don’t stop her. I don’t speak. I stand behind her in the doorway, close enough that she can feel my presence, far enough that she still owns her space. My eyes stay on the room, not on her body. The kind of attention that doesn’t feel like staring.
Her shoulders drop by millimeters with every rinse.
When she finishes, she dries her hands slowly, like if she moves too fast the night will come back. She looks up at me with tired eyes.
“I don’t want to be put in the middle of this today,” she says.
I hold her gaze. “Then you won’t be.”
I turn away first, because if I keep looking at her like this, barefoot and brave and shaking and still standing, I will lose the edge I need. Love makes men sloppy, and I do not get to be sloppy.
The kitchen smells like coffee and metal, that faint gun oil note that clings to men who slept in their clothes and kept their hands close to violence.
Juan is already on a line, voice low, Spanish clipped. Luca stands at the counter with his phone, eyes moving fast as he reads the screen. Rafa’s guys are outside sweeping the perimeter again. Tracks. Glass. Fence line. Window. Nothing gets missed.
Savannah pads in behind me, wrapped in a sweater like it is armor. Bare feet on wood. Small sounds that should not feel loud, but my body is listening for every sound now too.
Every man lowers his gaze without being told. Good. She will not be stared at in my presence.
I reach for the travel bag and set it on the table like we are leaving for a normal weekend, like a man did not press a photo to her window last night and test her lock like a joke.
“Pack ten minutes,” I tell her gently. “Only essentials.”
Her throat tightens. Her eyes flick to the hallway, then back to me. “Okay,” she whispers.
I look at Luca. “Any bite?”
Luca’s thumb scrolls. “Sergei read the message.”
My jaw tightens. “Response?”
“Typing,” Luca says. “Not sent yet.”
Juan’s voice cuts through, low and hard. “Means he’s thinking.”
I nod once.
Rafa comes in from outside, wiping his hands on a cloth like he touched something he doesn’t want on him. “Tracks confirmed,” he says. “One man. Same boot tread leaving as approaching. No second set.”
He pauses, eyes tight. “And he left something.”
My blood goes cold. “What?”
Rafa lifts a small plastic evidence sleeve. Inside is a thin strip of paper. A note.
I do not take it in front of Savannah. I do not let her eyes catch it and start building pictures in her head. I gesture once.
“Luca.”
Luca takes it and reads. His face tightens like the paper bites. “It’s a time,” he says quietly. “And a place.”
Juan doesn’t move, but I see the shift in his jaw. “What place?”
Luca exhales. “The church.”
Of course.
Savannah stands near the sink, still, listening without looking like she is listening. Her fingers touch her pendant once. She swallows like she is trying to keep her throat from closing.
I angle my body so my voice reaches her first. “You’re not going.”
She blinks. Her mouth opens. “I didn’t ask,” she whispers, voice small but sharp. Pride trying to stand up inside fear.
I step closer, slowly. “I’m telling you,” I correct softly, “so your body can stop bracing for it.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. She hates needing that, and I can feel it on her. But she nods once.
“Are we leaving now?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Back to the compound.”
Fear flashes. She tries to swallow it down like a pill. The compound is history. Men. Walls. Rules.
She forces the word out anyway. “Okay.”
I turn to Juan. “Convoy close together. Two ahead, two behind. No predictable route. No stops.”
Juan nods once. “Already set.”
I look at Luca. “Keep Sergei’s line open. If he answers, we track. If he moves, we follow.”
Luca nods, already typing to somebody.
Savannah’s hands are still slightly red from washing. The skin around her knuckles looks raw. I lower my voice. “Go pack. I’ll walk you out.”
Her eyes lift, a tiny flicker of something softer, then she nods and disappears down the hall.
I watch her go, and the moment she is out of earshot, the room gets colder.
“Romano,” I say.
Juan’s mouth tightens. “Cassio handles Romano.”
“He will,” I reply. “But not fast enough.”
Luca’s eyes narrow. “You want to move first.”
I nod. “Romano reached into Bratva. That is treason-level stupidity. Cassio will be furious.”
“And furious men still make political decisions,” Juan finishes, voice low.
“Exactly,” I say. “His solution will be to pull her closer. More guards. More family eyes.”
Juan’s voice drops. “He’ll test your boundary.”
“He’ll do it where witnesses matter,” I say.
Luca’s phone vibrates. He checks the screen and his face shifts. “Sergei replied.”
I step closer. “Read it.”
Luca reads, voice tight. “Bring her. Church. Noon. Alone. Proof she saw.”
Proof she saw.
My chest goes cold and hot at the same time. They do not want her to be safe. They want her reaction. They want her fear. They want her to look broken so they can point and say, See. Weak. See. Unstable. See. Cartel cannot protect its own treaty.
I exhale once, slow. “Reply,” I tell Luca. “One sentence.”
Juan’s eyes cut to mine. Luca hesitates. “What sentence?”
I do not blink. “Tell him she’s obedient when she’s afraid.”
Juan’s jaw flexes. Luca’s mouth tightens, because it is poison, because it is bait, because it will make Sergei believe the pressure worked. Men who think they are winning get careless.
Luca types. Sends.
I turn before my face shows what I really want, because what I really want is to put my hands around Sergei’s throat and choke the life out of him.
I move down the hall.
Savannah’s door is open. She is packing like a soldier with shaking hands. Leggings. Sweater. Socks. Quick. Precise. Like she is trying to outrun the feeling in her chest by moving faster than it.
Her diary sits on the bed like a heart she refuses to leave behind.
I stop in the doorway. I do not enter until she looks at me. Permission.
She looks up, eyes searching. “What?” she whispers.
“We leave in five,” I say.
“Okay,” she whispers, and zips the bag so hard the sound snaps.
Then she freezes. Breathing catches. Her eyes flick to the curtained window like the glass is still dirty with last night.
I step closer and take her wrists gently, bringing them to my chest so she can feel my heartbeat. Her eyes close for one second like she is trying to memorize the feeling.
Then she whispers, honest and angry, “I hate that I need this.”
I keep my voice low. “You do not hate breathing. This is breathing.”
Her mouth trembles. She leans in a fraction like her body chose before her pride could argue.
“Will you stay close in the car?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer immediately.
She nods, then her eyes lift and there is something new there. Need.
“I want you,” she whispers.
My body goes tight. I want her constantly, but I do not take from her when she is raw. I do not turn fear into consent. I keep my voice steady.
“Tell me what you want.”
She swallows. “Not gentle lies,” she whispers. “Not pretending nothing is happening.”
I nod once. “No pretending.”
Her eyes shine. “I want you to make me feel safe,” she says. “In my body.”
I step closer, careful. “Door stays open. You can stop me anytime.”
“Yes,” she breathes.
I kiss her slowly. Her hands clutch my shirt like she is anchoring herself to something solid. I pull back just enough to look at her.
When her breath finally evens out again, she looks at me like she is surprised she is still here.
“I forgot I could feel good,” she whispers, wrecked and honest.
My chest tightens. “You can,” I say. “And you will.”
A careful knock hits the door frame.
Rafa’s voice, respectful. “Jefe. Vehicles ready.”
I do not rip away from her. I do not make her feel abandoned the second the world calls. I look at her.
“Still okay?”
She nods once. “Yes.”
I help her sit up, adjust her sweater, and she grabs her diary like it is a shield and a voice and a weapon all at once. We step into the hall together.
The house moves fast again.
Cold air hits us outside. The convoy waits. Savannah’s hand tightens in mine as we approach the SUV.
Luca’s phone buzzes again. He checks it, and his face goes tight. “Jefe. Sergei sent another message.”
I do not take the phone yet. I feel Savannah’s pulse against my fingers. “Read it.”
Luca swallows, then says it. “He says: Noon. Church. Bring her diary.”
My blood goes ice.
Because now it is not just about where she stands. It is about what she writes.
And men like Sergei do not ask for a woman’s words unless they plan to use them against her.