Silence below. But not empty silence. The pressurized quiet of bodies waiting. The Bellanti hitmen aren't done. The four upstairs were the strike team. There will be a perimeter watch below.
I thumb the safety off my Glock.
"Stay behind me," I murmur.
Her fingers squeeze mine. A silent promise.
We descend. Ninth floor. Eighth floor.
My boots make no sound. Her boots squeak faintly once, and she freezes. I reach back, tracing the curve of her hip. A steadying touch. She exhales.
I am a calculated force, but the old walls are gone.
Before, I protected the family because it was my job. I cleared rooms because I was a machine built for it. Now, I clear the path because every threat in this building is an obstacle between my woman and the sun.
Pure instinct dictates my movements. Blood roars in my ears. The urge to hunt, to slaughter, to carve out a safe space for her to exist.
Seventh floor. Sixth floor.
The air grows colder. The dampness of the Chicago night bleeds through the concrete walls.
Fifth floor.
A scrape of a boot.
I stop. My arm shoots back, pinning Gemma against the wall. I press a finger to her lips in the dark.
She nods. Her eyes are wide, trusting. Instead of cowering from the monster, she presses closer, treating me like a shield.
I pivot around the landing.
The stairwell below the fourth floor is illuminated by the harsh glare of a flashlight. Two voices. Low. Grating.
"Fucking dead zone," one mutters. "Radio won't ping shit. You think they got him?"
"Costa is a tank. But four of our best went up. If they didn't get him, they'll blow the supports. Boss wants this rubble."
Bellanti rats.
Rage spikes hot and fast in my chest. They want to bury her. They want to drop this building on top of the only good thing I have ever found.
Not today. Not ever.
I step out of the shadows.
I do not hesitate. I do not issue warnings.
Two suppressed shots. Suppressed coughs.
The first rat drops, a hole between his eyes. The flashlight clatters down the concrete stairs, spinning wildly, casting erratic shadows across the walls.
The second man scrambles, hauling an assault rifle up.
I am already moving. I clear the stairs in three bounds. I drive my knee into his chest, slamming him against the rusted railing.The rifle clatters into the abyss. I grip his throat. I squeeze. Bone grinds. He chokes, eyes bulging.
"Nobody touches her," I snarl into his face.
A sharp twist. A crack echoing in the concrete shaft.
