Chapter 50
Gabriel
The cold hits like a slap. Not weather. Warning. It slides under my collar and finds the space between my ribs like it knows exactly where I keep my anger.
Juan’s text flashes once.
MOVEMENT. NOT CHURCH. SAFE HOUSE.
My jaw locks. I give Luca one look. He reads it like he knows exactly what it means, no questions, just a small nod. Then he slips into the side corridor like he was never here.
Cassio stands near the front pew like he owns the church, face neutral, eyes sharp.
He is watching me more than he is watching the Bratva, and that tells me everything.
He doesn’t trust the Russians. He doesn’t trust me.
He trusts Savannah. And the fact that she isn’t here is making every nerve in his body scream.
The church smells like incense and old wood, wax and dust, with a faint sweetness that doesn’t belong. Like flowers on a coffin. Somewhere behind me, a heater clicks on, then gives up, and the air stays cold anyway.
A side door opens and a cold draft moves through the aisle.
Sergei arrives like he is late on purpose.
Black coat. Gloves. Smile. The kind of smile men wear when they want you to forget they have a motive.
He walks down the aisle slowly, his shoes quiet against the stone, soft enough to make him seem almost soundless.
He wants witnesses. He wants people to remember him.
But Savannah is not here, and his smile goes thin for half a second.
He hides it. I don’t miss anything.
“Gabriel,” Sergei says softly, like he is greeting an old friend instead of a man he wants to kill.
My hands stay at my sides. My pulse stays steady. I can feel it anyway, the heartbeat under my skin, the pressure in my forearms, the violence sitting behind my eyes like a curtain waiting to drop.
Cassio lifts his chin. “Sit. We talk.”
Sergei’s eyes move to Cassio, then back to me like Cassio is just there. I’m the one he came for. Sergei doesn’t respect titles. He respects consequences. He respects the man who will act first.
“Where is she,” Sergei asks.
No hello. No mercy. Just the question.
I take one pace forward, and the air between us tightens like static before a storm. I can smell his cologne under the cold, clean and expensive and wrong in here.
“You do not get to say her name in a church,” I tell him.
My voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.
Sergei’s smile widens. “Oh. You married her and now you believe that makes her respectable.”
Cassio’s jaw tightens beside me. Italian pride. Sergei wants to get a rise out of him. He wants Cassio emotional. He wants me reacting. He wants the men turning violent over a few words.
I don’t give him that.
I pull my phone out. The screen flashes against my knuckles as I open Luca’s file with one tap. Proof. Romano’s face. Romano’s men. Romano shaking hands with the Bratva. Romano paying for information. Romano feeding routes. Romano smiling like he is smarter than everyone in the room.
I turn the screen so Cassio sees it first, not Sergei.
Cassio’s eyes narrow and he goes still. One breath. Two. Then his voice drops like stone.
“Romano.”
The name lands in the church like a safety clicking off.
Romano stiffens. Jerks like he has been hit.
He tries to shift back, fast and sloppy, like he can disappear into the stone.
An Alliance man steps into his path on purpose.
A shoulder bump, hard enough to throw Romano off balance.
His head snaps back with the impact, chin lifting like he has been yanked by an invisible hand.
For one ugly second, his face is exposed. Panic. Guilt. A rat realizing the walls are closing in.
He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, then closes it like he knows explanations don’t work on men like us.
Sergei’s expression changes, a flicker of interest. He didn’t expect the Italian to be the leak. It’s delicious when brothers tear each other apart.
Cassio steps forward. Real power doesn’t need to shout. It just gets closer and everyone feels it.
“Bring him,” Cassio says.
Alliance men move. Romano tries to pull back again, but bodies close around him. Hands on his arms, on his coat, on his throat if he makes the wrong move. No escape.
Romano’s breathing turns rough. He looks at Cassio like he knows he’s dead.
Sergei laughs softly, like this is the part he came for. “You see,” he says, looking at me. “It was never about the girl. It was always about men.”
I keep my eyes on him. I don’t look away.
“No. You’re wrong,” I tell him.
His smile tilts. “Am I.”
I lean in slightly, just enough to make it personal without making it sloppy. Just enough that he can smell the smoke on my clothes and the cold on my breath.
“Yes,” I say. “Men bleed over pride. Mikhail bleeds over power. But my wife…”
I let the word hang. Wife. Something holy and violent all at once.
“She is not bait,” I continue. “She is the reason you are still breathing.”
Sergei’s eyes narrow. For a beat, his smile slips.
Then his phone vibrates once in his palm. He doesn’t check it. He doesn’t need to. His weight shifts toward the side aisle, toward the exit, toward the street, toward her.
My phone buzzes again.
NOW.
One word from Juan.
I don’t look down. I glance at Cassio. He’s focused on Romano.
Good. Let him own the chaos. Let him deal with the betrayal while I handle the real threat.
I speak low to the nearest guard, a stranger in a suit who doesn’t know me but knows power.
“Keep him here,” I say, nodding at Sergei. “If he moves, you break his legs.”
The guard’s eyes widen. His throat bobs. Then he nods once, hard, like his body is saying yes before his brain can argue.
Sergei notices anyway. He always notices. He smiles like I just confirmed something, like he just won a piece of the board, like he can taste the panic I am refusing to show.
I start down the aisle. My boots hit stone with a steady rhythm, and every step feels like restraint. My men fall in behind me without being told. Quiet, disciplined movement. Predators that know how to behave in public.
Cassio calls after me. “Where are you going?”
I don’t stop. I don’t look back.
“Protecting the treaty,” I say.
Because that’s what Savannah is. On the surface, she’s part of the agreement. Under that, this is war. And today she doesn’t even get to be that. Today she’s the line men keep trying to cross.
Outside, the cold bites harder. The sky is gray and low, heavy enough to feel like it could drop on the city if it wanted to.
A car idles too far down the block with its lights off. A man stands by a corner like he is waiting for someone, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning. My senses take inventory. The air smells like exhaust and wet concrete. A distant siren wails and fades.
My phone is in my hand before I reach the car. My fingers are too steady. That’s how I know I’m dangerous.
I call Juan. He answers on the first ring.
“Jefe.”
His voice is tight. Too tight.
“Talk.”
“Second man moved,” Juan says. “He didn’t go to the church. He stayed on the safe house.”
My grip tightens until the edge of the phone bites into my palm.
“Where is Savannah.”
A pause.
My blood goes colder than the street.
“Juan,” I say again. “Where.”
“She is inside,” he says fast. “Rafa is with her. Two women are with her. But—”
“But what.” I growl.
“We’ve got a breach in the back alley,” Juan says. “Unmarked vehicle. Two men. They’re not Alliance. They’re not ours.”
My chest turns into steel. Not fear. Not panic. Steel. A decision forming faster than thought.
“Do not let them touch her,” I say.
Juan’s voice drops lower. “They are trying to pull the power. If the lights go out, they go in.”
I open the driver’s door, get in, and the cold seat hits me right away.
“Lock it down,” I order. “Cut off the street. Block the exits. If they touch the door…”
I stop, because this is not business. This is my wife. The word tightens my throat even when I don’t say it out loud.
“If they touch the door,” I repeat, voice flat, “kill them.”
Juan exhales once. Relief and dread at the same time.
“Understood.”
I hang up. The screen goes dark, and my reflection stares back at me for a second. Eyes hard. Mouth set. Face like a mask welded on.
I look at the church behind me, stone and candles and the lie of peace. I look at the city. I look at the lie we built inside stone walls and thought it would keep her safe.
And I see the truth.
This was never one trap. This was a hunt.
Savannah is the prize, not because she is weak, but because she matters. Because men will kill over her. Because she is the one thing that can make men like Cassio and me stop thinking like kings and start thinking like monsters.
I start the car. The engine turns over smooth, like it knows what kind of shitty day this is. I pull out and drive.
The streets blur. My hands stay steady on the wheel even as my mind moves faster than the wheels.
Routes. Time. Distance.
If the lights go out, I need to be there before anyone decides darkness gives them cover to come in.
I don’t pray. I plan.
Because prayer doesn’t stop a Bratva hand from opening a door.
Only violence does.