Gabriel’s reply is already in motion as his thumbs fly over his phone. Tires spin, and we disappear into the city, every red light a countdown and every block a pulse closer to the place where graves and promises collide.
We park a little way down the road, out of sight of the iron gates. Engine cuts. Gabriel and I climb out, shoes hitting asphalt. A handful of our men melt out of the shadows—faces set, rifles slung, eyes on the cemetery. Carlo is there, grin gone, offering an Uzi with the businesslike calm of a man who’s never surprised by blood. The metal is cold in my hands; the weight feels right.
“No speeches,” Gabriel says, voice flat. “Sweep, clear, move.”
We slip through the gap in the fence, ghosts among stones. Headstones throw long black bars across the ground; tombs hide more than grief tonight. Men step from shadow like theywere carved there—Orlov’s boys, scattered, searching for me. Thinking I’m hiding but I’m not, not anymore. Targets are taken down fast, hard, efficient. No time for hesitation. Shots crack, ricochet bites at marble, silhouettes fall and stop moving. Men who try to fight are ended where they stand; others drop their weapons and curl up, hands over heads, but hope dies quick in the dark.
Carlo moves like a machine, Uzi barking in short, controlled bursts. Gabriel covers our flank, measured and merciless. The plan is simple: find them, make them pay, take the ground back. We push deeper—lanes of graves become a maze of cover and shadow. Every nook gets checked; every tomb is a room to clear.
No sign of Mikhail Orlov. Not behind the big family crypts, not in the mausoleum rows, not in the low tangles by the service road. Men fall around us. By the time the firing thins to occasional pops and the immediate threat has been shredded, the cemetery is littered with bodies but Mikhail isn’t one of them.
The quiet after is sharp. We tally, breathe, reload. Carlo’s face is stony.
Gabriel curses under his breath and looks at me. “He slipped,” he says. “Either out or deeper in.”
“Or he left when the first shot rang out,” comes the harder answer in my head. Either way, the message was sent. Orlov’s men learned tonight what it means to try and touch what’s ours.
We withdraw in formation, bodies left where they fell, the dead tell no tales. The fence ticks as we climb back out. The night swallows our footprints. No Mikhail. No closure—only the cold, returning weight of what we’ll do next.
“Find Mikhail Orlove,” I tell the men, voice flat and cold. “Any of his boys—bring them down. Don’t come back without him or a body.”
Carlo hesitates, grip tight on the Uzi. “Boss, where you going? Don’t you want to be in on the sweep? This is our chance to over thrown the Russian scum once and for all.”
A hard laugh escapes, more sound than humor. “My place is with my bride.” The words land like a verdict. “If she doesn’t make it, neither will this peace between the families. Everything we built—gone. I won’t trade her for a victory.”
Men peel out into the dark again, they will comb the streets, alleys, every place Orlove’s dogs might have run. Carlo gives one last look, unreadable, then moves. Gabriel falls into step beside him, phones already working, alerting eyes and ears across the city.
Engine still warm, the city lights blur into streaks as the hospital sign grows bigger. A guard meets me at the door, face all business and tired eyes.
“No one got near her,” he says flatly. “She’s in ICU. Can I take you up?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out like a held breath finally released. “Thank you. For keeping her safe—how many of you?”
“Twenty.” The answer is clipped.
“Good,” comes the promise before anything softer finds me. “You’ll be paid. All of you.”
The guard’s jaw tightens; a nod is the only thanks he offers. No theatrics. Just duty.
The elevator smells of metal and antiseptic. The guard presses the button to the ICU floor. The doors open and he escorts me past nurses and doctors who look up and then away.
A chair sits by her bed. Sophia on the cot looks smaller somehow, with the hospital lines and tubes. Pale, breathing steady. My hand finds hers she feels warm, stubborn, and more real than anything else in the room.
Fingers curl around mine. No swagger left. No threats. Just a promise held between knuckles and skin as monitors beep and the city hums beyond the windows.
I sit, shoes heavy on the linoleum, and hold on. Her eyelids flutter; a shred of a smile ghosts her lips in sleep.
The men are out hunting ghosts and names. The city is a dark engine of plans and retaliation. For now, the only war that matters is the slow fight for the woman sleeping in this stark room. Hands closed around hers, a promise sharp in my chest, as I keep vigil.
Chapter Sixteen
Sophia
Two Months Later
The first thing I see is the Eiffel Tower, a dark silhouette against a pale Paris morning through the hotel window. A smile slides across my face before a cheeky kiss lands right on my butt. I roll over and the grin grows—Raphael is a map of temptation, planting kisses up my side, over my ribs, pausing to press one to my lips. Warm, stubborn, claiming.
My shoulder nags—an ache that’s lived with me since the cemetery—but it’s not the sharp, white-hot terror it was. The bullet went clean through, the surgeon said it missed bone and arteries. Lucky, she called it. Lucky and stubborn and a pain in the ass.
