Chapter 26
Frances
“How are you holding up?” Stella asks, swerving through the narrow, tree-lined roads that twist deep into the wooded hills. The late-night fog curls around the car like fingers, making the road ahead look endless and uncertain.
Just like my love life.
“I’m doing as well as can be expected,” I reply numbly, my voice hollow in the quiet hum of the car. “A little numb. A bit terrified.”
“Yeah. I get that.” Stella keeps her eyes glued to the road. “It’s not easy… this family. We come with all kinds of baggage.”
“Baggage?” I scoff. “More like coffins.”
“Tomato. Tomahto, ” she shrugs, unfazed.
I shake my head, amazed that she can be so blasé about it. “How can you live like this? Aren’t you scared? Of the police, prison—or worse, getting killed?”
Stella just laughs. “You think my family’s the first of its kind? Trust me—families like mine have existed long before we ever came into the picture, and there’ll be crime syndicates long after we’re all gone. But don’t sweat it. We’ve been at this for decades. We know exactly what we’re doing.”
“Well I’m not sure I want to be part of it,” I reply nervously.
“Yeah, I get how a normal would think like that. But when you’re born into it, it’s just life. We all have our shit to carry. You either go with the flow or drown.” She glances at me and sighs. “That’s just how life is, you know? Life ebbs and flows like the tide—sometimes it pulls away, leaving you exposed and vulnerable, and other times it crashes in, filling you with a sense of purpose. You either learn to ride it… or let it break you.”
I fall quiet, staring out at the blur of trees as her words settle in.
“He does love you, you know?” she adds gently.
“I know he does.”
“Isn’t that enough?”
I don’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” I whisper more to myself than to her.
Is love enough?
I always wanted a family of my own—but is this what I pictured? Loving someone who could die at any moment. Loving someone with your whole heart yet fearing they may never come home? That’s too much heartbreak for one person to carry. A life like that would definitely break me.
“You know Lucky’s not going to live like the rest of us, right?”
“What do you mean?” I turn to her, curious.
“He’s not going to be a made man like Marcello. Or like I might be, someday. He and Enzo have this whole setup going, one I think will benefit the famiglia immensely while keeping them away from actual trouble. You know the twins are smart. Like crazy smart. They’ve got their own way of doing things. Safe. Clean. No blood on their hands. All they’ll need is a computer and little else. No fuss. No mess.”
“Are you allowed to tell me this? Isn’t that like… Mafia secrets or something?” I ask, surprised that she’d be this candid with me.
“Or something,” she cackles. “But if you haven’t noticed, testosterone outweighs estrogen ten to one in my house. I was kind of hoping we’d finally have another sister around.”
My heart swells—because I know she means it. And truthfully, I care for Stella and Anna almost as much as I love Lucky.
But is this really the family I want for me and Darius?
How can I throw myself and my brother into shark-infested waters knowingly?
“Shit,” Stella mutters, eyes narrowing as she presses harder on the gas.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re being tailed. Hold on.”
That’s all the warning I get before the car jerks violently. Stella cuts across the road, swerving to avoid the high beams flashing behind us. Tires screech as she guns it, twisting through the narrow forest lanes like a racer with something to prove.
Branches whip past us in a blur of motion and shadow, the engine roaring louder with every turn. Then—a sharp bend, too sharp.
Stella yanks the wheel, but it’s too late.
The car fishtails, tires losing grip on the damp asphalt. We spin once—twice—before the world flips sideways and metal crunches against metal and tree bark. The seatbelt bites into my chest as the car lurches to a violent stop, nose-first in a ditch, smoke curling from the hood.
For a beat, everything is still. Silent. The only sound is my own ragged breathing and the ticking of the cooling engine.
Then—headlights.
They wash over us like floodlights in the dark. The other car slows, engine growling low, and eases to a stop just a few feet behind our wrecked vehicle.
“Are you okay?” she asks, already unbuckling her seat belt.
“I…I think so.”
“Good. Stay in the car. No matter what you see or hear. Don’t move.”
Then she’s gone.
I watch in stunned awe as Stella pulls two guns from behind her back and starts firing at the vehicle that chased us into a ditch. Muzzle flashes light up the night as bullets fly. Bullets continue to whistle past the car, each one cracking like a whip in the air. Then I hear a loud crash! The rear windshield explodes behind me, shards of glass raining down like glittering hail. I let out a blood curdling scream, instinctively ducking low, my arms flying over my head as a second shot ricochets off the metal frame of the door. My ears ring from the proximity of the shots, the world narrowing down to pure noise and panic.
All this time, I was worried about my proximity to the Romano clan, fearing for Lucky’s life, when all the while I should have been focused on my own. And yet here I am, worried not for myself but for Stella. She’s still out there, firing back at our attackers, doing everything she can to keep me safe. I can hear her shouting something, her voice fierce and wild over the staccato of gunfire.
The car rocks slightly as she moves, the thunder of her shots echoing through the forested road like firecrackers in a canyon. The sharp tang of gunpowder leaks into the air, mixing with the sweet rot of pine and earth outside.
TINK! TINK!
Another round slams into the side mirror, snapping it off. The glass shatters like ice.
I curl tighter into the seat, heart racing, breath shallow, trying not to sob or scream. My hands are over my head, but they’re shaking too badly to offer any real protection.
“The boss wants the girl alive!” I hear someone shout, but then gunshots roar again, but I’m too scared to lift my head to see if Stella is okay. My heart hammers against my ribs. My hands tremble in my lap. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I clasp my hands together and start to pray.
Please, God. I know we’re on a time-out—but please, please keep Stella safe. Please.
And then—silence.
Eerie, suffocating silence.
I lift my head slowly, just in time to see my door wrench open.
“Get out,” a burly man growls in strangled English.
“No,” I snap, gripping the seatbelt.
But instead of arguing, he lunges inside, grabbing at the belt. I punch him—once, twice—but it barely fazes him. He curses in a language I don’t recognize, then drags me out of the car like a rag doll.
That’s when I see it.
Stella’s lifeless body lying on the road, her hair and back drenched in blood.
“STELLA!” I scream, lunging for her, but the man behind me locks his arms around my waist, lifting me off the ground, even as I kick and thrash to break free.
“Pick that one up,” he orders his friend. “The boss might want to deal with her too.”
He throws me into the back seat of their car and ties my hands behind my back. I watch helplessly as his friend hauls Stella over his shoulder and then shoves her into the trunk like a sack of meat.
“Is she okay? What have you done to my friend? Where are you taking us?!”
“Shut up!” the first man yells, his spit landing on my cheek, before he turns around and starts the car.
“Tell me where we’re going!” I shout again, enraged.
The other man sitting in the passenger seat turns, gun raised right at my temple.
“Shut up—or I’ll make you shut up.”
Staring down the barrel, I should be terrified. But I’m not.
Instead, I lean in until my forehead touches the cold metal. “Where. Are. You. Taking us?”
He stares, nostrils flaring. “This one’s a talker.”
“Then shut her up,” the driver says, limping from what looks like a bullet wound to the leg.
I’m about to scream at him again—when the butt of the gun crashes into my temple, making my whole world go black.
Fluorescent bright light burns behind my eyes as I blink myself awake, the smell of oil and jet fuel making me nauseous.
“Get out,” snarls the man who yanked me from Stella’s car, dragging me from the back seat.
My knees hit the cold concrete, my legs too weak to hold me up, as I finally see where our captors have taken us—an airplane hangar.
“Get up,” the same man orders, bringing me to stand up by holding onto my handcuffs.
I try to pull free, but his grip is vice-tight.
“Get your filthy hands off me!”
“Just shut the fuck up,” he snaps, shaking me until my teeth rattle.
But then his attention pulls away from me and onto the gleaming under overhead lights of the sleek and obviously expensive private jet in front of us.
And then another man comes into view as he descends the stairs slowly.
Dark hair. Darker eyes. A black suit that fits him like it was tailored just for him.
Unlike his goons, this man looks dangerous just by existing.
He walks toward me with the precision of a panther, and I fall silent.
Because I know—whoever this man is, he’s the reason why Stella and I are here.
My heart pounds in my chest as the dark-eyed man stops just inches away from me. He doesn’t speak at first, just stares at me, like he’s seeing a ghost.
It’s only when I shift uncomfortably under the tight grip of his goon that something in his expression changes.
“Release her,” he says, voice low and sharp.
“Boss, this one’s a fighter,” the man grunts.
The dark man’s lips curve into something that someone might even say is a smile. “I’m sure she is. Now release her, Lev. That’s an order.”
Reluctantly, Lev, the thug, uncuffs my wrists. I rub them immediately, wincing at the angry red welts already starting to bruise.
The man—the boss, apparently—eyes the marks with visible rage. He looks like he might kill the guy just for touching me.
“Come. Let me get you some ointment for that,” he says, turning toward the plane.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not until I know my friend is okay.”
“Your friend?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. Then he swivels his gaze to his men, cold and precise. “What is she talking about?”
“We trailed her, just like you said, Boss,” Lev answers. “But she was in the car with the Romano bitch.”
His jaw tightens and I almost feel the air around us grow colder.
“Where is she now?”
“In the trunk, Boss,” the other goon offers, clearly unaware of the mood his boss is in.
“Show me.”
He strides to the back of the car, my gaze following him, as tension knots my stomach. When the trunk pops open and Stella doesn’t immediately jump out in attack, something inside me breaks.
“Is she okay? Is my friend alright?” I ask anxiously, only to be met with silence
“We got her good,” the man beside him says with pride, practically admiring the damage he caused.
The boss doesn’t respond, just stares into the trunk.
“Who shot her?” he finally asks.
“I did, Boss,” the man says, puffing up with self-satisfaction.
“I see.”
And before I can even blink, the boss draws his gun and fires, point-blank into the man’s head.
Blood sprays as his body drops like a puppet with its strings cut off.
I don’t scream.
I don’t even move.
Because in that moment, I understand exactly what kind of man I’m dealing with.
If he doesn’t bat an eye about killing his own men, what will he do to me?
I watch on pins and needles as the boss bends down and, with surprising tenderness, lifts Stella from the trunk.
“Clean this mess up, Lev,” he snaps to the only man left standing.
“Yes, Boss.”
“Kira, come with me,” he orders and starts walking toward the stairs of the jet, Stella limp in his arms.
I don’t have the strength or courage to correct him and tell him that my name is Frances, not Kira.
It wouldn’t matter anyway. Wherever he’s taking Stella, I’m going too.
But just as we near the stairs, headlights cut through the darkness, a familiar SUV barreling toward us.
Lucky.
“Deal with that,” the dark-haired man commands.
The remaining soldier raises his weapon, but I lunge before he can fire, shoving him back with everything I have.
The SUV screeches to a halt, Lucky jumping out, gun already raised.
“Let her go, Kirill!” he shouts, eyes flicking from me to the man holding his sister.
Kirill.
So that’s his name.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Kirill replies, still calm, still cradling Stella against his chest.
“I’m not fucking around, Kirill. Let Frankie and my sister go!”
“And what are you going to do? Shoot me?” Kirill chuckles.
As if he just hurled a dare at him, Lucky shoots Lev in the leg, the man howling and collapsing to the ground.
Lucky uses the distraction to rush forward and pull me behind him.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, clutching his shoulders. “I’m okay.”
He’s shaking with rage, his jaw clenched as he aims his gun at Kirill.
“Let my sister go.”
“I already told you—I can’t.”
“I’ll blow your goddamn brains out.”
Kirill doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t so much as break a sweat under the threat. Instead, his gaze moves to Stella, then back to me, his cold apathetic expression changing somewhat, something softening his sharp edges.
“Frances,” he says, my name slicing through the tense moment. “If you want to know where you really come from—who your birth parents are—you’ll tell your boyfriend to lower his gun.”
My breath catches.
“What?” I whisper.
“You heard me. You want answers? I’ve got them. Come with me, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“You’re lying!” Lucky barks, stepping forward.
Again, Kirill doesn’t even blink. “I never lie to family.”
Family.
The word spilled from his hard lips hits me like a punch to the gut.
“It’s up to you, Frances,” he continues calmly. “Come with me, and by the end of the day, you’ll know everything you’ve ever wondered about yourself.”
I look at Lucky. Then at Kirill.
There’s something about him. Something familiar. A magnetic pull I can’t explain.
“Don’t,” Lucky says, grabbing my wrist.
I meet his eyes. And then I step back.
“I have to know. I’m sorry.”
I walk toward the plane.
“Fuck,” Lucky mutters behind me. “If Frankie’s going with you, then so am I.”
Kirill’s smile widens.
“Very well. I hope you don’t get airsick,” he says over his shoulder, climbing the stairs carefully with Stella still in his arms. “It’s going to be a long flight.”
When we board the plane, I’m surprised to see another man already there, sitting in the front row like he’s been waiting for us with popcorn.
“Thanks for the help, Kostya,” Kirill mutters sarcastically, barely concealing his annoyance. “Didn’t think to lend a hand when a gun was being aimed at my head?”
“You looked like you had it covered,” Kostya replies, eyes immediately locking onto the body in Kirill’s arms. “Is that her?”
Kirill clutches Stella tighter, hiding her from Kostya’s view. “No.” He then jerks his chin toward me.
Kostya’s eyes follow the gesture and then go wide. “Holy shit!” He bolts up from his seat, gawking at me like I’ve risen from the dead. “She looks just like—”
“I know,” Kirill cuts him off, sharp as a whip. But it’s too late, Kostya is already moving, swaggering toward me like we’re old friends reunited.
“Wow. Never thought this day would come.”
“And who the fuck are you?” Lucky snaps, stepping in front of me like a human shield.
Kostya grins. “I’m that motherfucker’s brother, Konstantin. But you can call me Kostya,” he says, addressing me with a surprisingly soft tone—his jet-black eyes, identical to Kirill’s, gentling in my direction.
My nerves are already shot from the bullets and car crash and abduction, so I blurt the only thing I can manage. “Nice to meet you.”
Lucky swivels to look at me like I’ve completely lost my mind, while both men chuckle.
“Guess the intel was right,” Kostya laughs. “You really are a nun if you’re that polite to your kidnappers.”
I square my shoulders and step out from behind Lucky. “You’re not kidnapping me. I’m here of my own volition. You said you had information about my parents, so let’s hear it.”
“All in good time, plemyannitsa, ” Kirill says, using a word in a foreign language I don’t recognize.
Is that Russian?
He’s still holding Stella as though she’s made of glass and the world’s too sharp for her. “Take a seat. Make yourselves comfortable. Kostya, tell the pilot we’re good to go.”
“Where are you taking her?” I ask, pushing past Kostya with Lucky at my side.
“To tend to your friend,” Kirill replies simply, disappearing toward the back of the plane.
“I’m coming too, asshole. She’s my sister,” Lucky barks out.
Kirill doesn’t even glance back. “Have it your way.” He flicks a look at Kostya. “Why are you still here?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Kostya grumbles, reluctantly peeling his eyes off me and heading to the cockpit.
Lucky and I follow Kirill into a private room in the rear of the plane. There’s a plush king-sized bed in the center and an en-suite bathroom to the side, more luxury hotel than aircraft.
Kirill lays Stella down carefully, almost reverently. I watch silently as his fingers linger on her pulse for a second too long, his expression unreadable.
“Stay with her. I’ll be right back,” he says, mostly to me.
And then he’s gone.
I turn to Lucky the moment we’re alone. “What the hell is going on?”
He scoffs under his breath. “You tell me. This was your bright idea—getting on a plane with the fucking Bratva.”
“Bratva?” I blink.
“The Russian mafia, Frankie. That’s who those assholes are.”
My heart all but stops.
“And what do they want with me? Do you really think they have information about my parents?”
“I don’t know,” Lucky admits, his eyes flicking back to Stella, worry clouding his face. “What happened to her?”
“Stella was driving me back to the orphanage when two of Kirill’s thugs ran us off the road. She tried to protect me—fired at them and everything. But they shot back. I think… I think she hit her head hard on the pavement. She’s been out cold for almost an hour now.”
“Fuck. That’s not good.”
“No. It’s not.” I pause. “But how did you even find us?”
Lucky doesn’t answer right away.
“Lucky?”
“I couldn’t let things end like that,” he finally says. “With us, I mean. After you left the house, I got in my car and headed to the orphanage so we could talk it out. That’s when I found Stella’s car bullet-ridden and empty. I knew you were in trouble.”
I stare at him, already dreading the next part. “So how did you find us?”
He winces. “I… tracked your phone.”
“You what?” I practically shout.
“Babe, can you please be mad at me after we survive this?”
I grit my teeth. “Fine. But we’re not done with this conversation.”
“Noted.” He gives a tight nod. “Anyway, the tracker led me here.”
“Did you call for backup? Your parents?”
“Yeah. I sent word. They should be on their way by now,” he says, picking up his phone and quickly texting his family.
I glance out the small plane window, and frown when the tarmac is already rolling past us.
“I don’t think they’re going to get here in time,” I whisper, watching the plane hurry down the tarmac.
Lucky nods, but I can see the worry etched in his features.
“They won’t, will they?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer and gently cups my face, his forehead resting against mine.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you. You know that, right?”
I exhale slowly, trying to calm my pounding heart as the plane picks up speed.
“I know,” I whisper back. “But I don’t think I’m the one you should be worried about.”
Because something in my gut tells me that Kirill and Kostya wouldn’t hurt me.
But Lucky?
I’m not sure they’d even bat an eye before pulling the trigger.
“When they were shooting at us, all I could think about was what kind of mess you dragged me into,” I whisper, voice trembling. “But now… I’m afraid I’m the one who’s putting you in danger.”
Lucky brushes a hand over my hair, voice rough but certain. “As long as I’m with you, that’s all that matters.”
Just as the words leave his mouth, my stomach flips and I hold onto Lucky as the plane lifts into the air, cutting through the night sky. The rumble of the engine builds beneath us, a sound that feels too final. I swallow, hoping I didn’t just sign Lucky’s death warrant by getting on this plane.
I know he’d die to protect me. But I don’t think he understands—I’d do the same for him. I couldn’t live in a world where Lucky wasn’t in it.
He holds me tight until the plane evens out, soaring at a steady altitude. That’s when the door opens again and Kirill walks in, followed by Kostya. Kirill is carrying a black leather bag that looks a hell of a lot like something a battlefield medic would own.
He doesn’t even glance our way. Instead, he kneels beside the bed, brushing Stella’s blood-matted hair away from her face with a surprising tenderness.
“Has she woken up yet?” he asks without looking up at us.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“Okay. Might be for the best.” His eyes flick to mine. “Can you hold her head while I take off her jacket?”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Lucky snaps, already moving in front of me protectively.
“Your sister has a bullet in her shoulder. I’m going to take it out,” Kirill explains like this is an everyday occurrence for him.
“The fuck you are! Land the goddamn plane and take her to a hospital!”
“That’s not happening,” Kirill says, his voice low and final, a glacier behind those eyes.
“Let him help,” I cut in, placing a hand on Lucky’s arm. “He won’t hurt Stella.”
The vein in Lucky’s neck pulses hard. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue.
“Oh shit—this is Stella?” Kostya says with a chuckle, like it’s the punchline of some cosmic joke. “ The Stella?”
“ Zamolchi. Ni drugogo slova!” Kirill barks, snapping his head toward his brother. The scolding is sharp enough to slice the tension in half. He then turns to me, once he’s reined in his rage. “Come help me, Kira.”
“My name is Frances,” I correct through gritted teeth, but I move toward the bed anyway.
Stella is barely conscious, limp in my hands as I prop her up. Kirill works quickly, his fingers skilled and sure as he peels off her leather jacket, revealing that blood has soaked through the lining. Her black turtleneck follows, leaving her in a paper-thin, nearly transparent tank top that’s plastered to her skin and drenched in her own blood.
“What…what’s going on?” she groans disoriented, eyes fluttering open.
“One of my soldat shot you, milaya. I need to get the bullet out. You’re losing too much blood,” Kirill murmurs, slipping off his jacket and shirt without shame, leaving his scarred, muscular chest bare. Like this, he looks more like a soldier than any doctor I’ve ever seen.
“Ki…Kill?” Stella whispers, slurring his name.
“Yes, dusha moya. It’s me.” His voice gentles into something almost unrecognizable—soft, intimate, and dangerous in its familiarity.
I glance over at Lucky, whose jaw is locked tight, his hands curled into fists.
But though it must be killing him, he remains silent, not wanting to pull Kirill’s focus off his wounded sister.
“How is your head?”
“I’ve… had… worse hangovers,” Stella replies, still battling to keep awake.
Kirill smiles at her, only to square his shoulders next, when he feels too many eyes on him and Stella. “This will hurt,” Kirill warns, gently tipping her forward to inspect the wound. Blood is pouring from her shoulder in slow, pulsing rivulets, soaking the sheets beneath her. “Hand me the alcohol and small forceps,” he says without looking up.
“Aye aye, doc,” Kostya quips, digging into the bag and tossing a small bottle and gleaming silver forceps in their original hygienic package.
Kirill snarls at him like a wolf warning another away from its kill—but when he turns to Stella, he’s all focus and gentleness.
“Bite into me if you need to, milaya, ” he says, voice suddenly low and coaxing.
Then he dumps the alcohol straight into her open wound.
Stella’s scream rips through the room like a jagged blade, raw and animal-like. Her teeth sink into Kirill’s shoulder, hard enough to draw blood—but he doesn’t flinch.
“Hold her steady!” he barks.
I throw my arms around her chest, keeping her upright as she thrashes weakly. Lucky shines the flashlight from his phone over her back, illuminating the gory mess.
Blood glistens on Kirill’s hands as he slides the forceps deep into the wound. Stella sobs against him, whimpering between clenched teeth.
The metal scrapes against bone—click—then he clamps down.
With a practiced yank, he pulls the bullet out. It’s blackened and jagged, slick with her blood.
He tosses it to the floor with a metallic clink and immediately cups the back of her head, pressing his lips to her damp hair.
“The worst is done. Now I just have to stitch you up.”
“I’m so tired…” she murmurs, eyes glassy, her body trembling with shock.
“I know, dusha moya. That’s the blood loss talking.” He nods to Kostya. “Needle and sutures.”
Ten minutes of painstaking stitching follow—Kirill works with frightening precision, his brow furrowed, hands steady as a machine. Blood runs down his forearms and stains the sheets, but he doesn’t stop until the wound is closed and bound tight with gauze from his bag.
During his stellar work, Stella slips into unconsciousness again. Kirill pulls the blanket up to her chin and strokes a hand across her temple with a gentleness I wouldn’t have believed a man like him could even have if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I ask quietly, holding onto Stella’s hand.
“Medical school,” he answers, eyes not leaving her face.
“You’re a doctor?”
“Not exactly.”
He finally pulls his shirt back on and reaches for the bloodied bag.
“Watch over her,” he says. “Call me if she wakes or if she starts to shiver with a fever.”
As he moves to leave, Lucky blocks the doorway, muscles tense and eyes blazing.
“Where are you taking us?” he growls.
Kirill glances back at Stella, then at me, his black eyes softening just slightly.
“Home,” he says. “I’m taking you home.”