Strong arms catch me before the ground can. Raphael pulls me tight against his chest, lowering me carefully but not letting go. My breath hitches, pain clawing through me, but his hold is steady, unshakable.
Raphael’s arms lock around me, as if I weigh nothing. The world sways, the rhythm of his stride pounding against the chaos still echoing in the cemetery behind us. My head lolls against his chest, the scent of sweat and gunpowder clinging to him, the steady thud of his heart in my ear.
Pain claws through my shoulder, sharp and unrelenting, dragging the edges of my vision into darkness. I try to fight it, try to hold on, but my body betrays me.
The last thing I feel is the strength of his grip and the sound of his breath before everything slips away.
Chapter Fifteen
Raphael
Headlights cut through the dark, a horn blares, and a car skids to a screaming halt just feet from where I stand with Sophia in my arms. Tires burn rubber, smoke curling in the air.
Sprinting to the passenger side, I yank the door open, and lower her into the seat like she’s made of glass. My hands linger, brushing the blood-matted silk of her blouse, then I slam the door shut.
No time.
Vaulting onto the hood, I slide across the bonnet, and rip open the driver’s door. The man behind the wheel barely gets a word out before I drag him into the street, dump him on the asphalt, and swing myself into the car.
The engine growls, tires scream, and I put the city behind us, one red light at a time. Sophia’s head lolls against the seat, every bump stealing another piece of my sanity. The hospital lights finally blaze ahead, salvation wrapped in white brick and neon.
I’m out of the car before it’s even stopped, cradling her against my chest as I charge through the doors. “Help!” My voice is raw, stripped bare.
The medical team swarms, voices overlapping, hands reaching. They rip her from me, lay her on a gurney, push through double doors. A nurse shouts at me—words I don’t hear.My eyes are locked on Sophia as they tear open her shirt, the wound glaring back at me, red and ugly.
The nurse plants both hands on my chest, shoving me back. I don’t move. She pushes harder, then freezes when her eyes drop to the gun still clutched in my fist.
Her face drains of color. She backs up.
Security floods in, black uniforms, heavy boots, forming a wall around me. Someone grabs my wrist, twists, the weight of the gun slides from my hand. Only then do I blink, drag my gaze from Sophia to the nurse.
My voice cracks as the words fall out, bare and true. “Please… make sure she’s okay. I’m not sure what I’ll do without her. She’s mine. She’s my wife.”
Adrenaline locks my jaw into a hard line. Instincts take over before grief can calcify.
“Lock this place down,” I tell the nearest guard, voice low and cold. “Keep everyone out. No one in, no one out.”
He hesitates, then moves, barking commands, moving into action.
“This is war,” I tell them, loud enough for more than the nearest to hear. “The Russians declared it the second they fired. Sophia’s the first casualty.” The words land like a blow. Heads turn. Conversations stop.
A hand lands on my forearm—soft, urgent. The nurse, her face a mask of professional calm, says, “Sir, you’ve been shot.”
My gaze drops. A dark line along my biceps, warm under the fabric. Fingers find it, test the skin. Muscles contract on command.
“No,” comes out flat. “Just a graze.” The lie tastes like steel, but it steadies me.
A security guard fills the space between me and the door, blocking the exit like he owns the line. He’s square-shouldered, committed. The thought of being held here spins the room.
No.
“Listen,” I say, slow, and dangerous. “I am Raphael—The Reaper—Costa. Do not try to stop me or you’ll feel my wrath.” My voice doesn’t need to rise; the name gives it all the weight it needs. Pointing at the Sophia, I say, “Keep her safe. Do whatever you need to do. I will pay you handsomely.”
Contracts and threats—one for protection, one for obedience. The guard’s jaw tightens, the choice grinding behind his eyes. He steps back. The line holds.
Gabriel is waiting at the doors, face a map of concern. No questions—only a look, a nod.
Outside, the car I stole still idles. Metal sings lightly in the night air. Sliding in, I put it in drive. Gabriel climbs in beside me. “Alert the men,” I order without looking. “Tell Antonio and Hector. Tell the Chavez’s. Head for Miami Cemetery—Orlov’s men started this; unfinished business ends tonight.”
