Page 88 of Freedom’s Inferno

A rustle came through the line, quiet but unmistakable, followed by a soft, broken gasp that froze me where I stood. Someone in pain, fighting for breath.

Lana’s voice crackled, faint and strained. She tried to speak, to call out, but the noise turned into a choked cry, cut off suddenly.

I froze, every muscle in my body locked. “Lana‒”

Costa came back on the line, his tone colder now, the amusement gone. “That’s all you get, Mr. Sterling. If you ever want to see her alive again, I suggest you don’t waste time.”

The line went dead, and the silence that followed swallowed everything.

I stood there, the receiver still pressed to my ear; my heart punched its way out of my chest. I lowered the phone as the weight of his words sank in. My hand shook so badly it nearly slipped from my grip.

Lana’s voice still echoed in my head. Hoarse, terrified, alive. That single, broken breath replayed over and over, needling under my skin until I thought I might tear it off to make it stop. The image of her in that photograph flashed behind my eyes: her hair, the blood at her temple, the stillness of her body.

And that hand on her shoulder, as her head rested in another man’s lap. Obscene.

She’s alive. Costa’s voice replayed in my mind, smooth and unhurried, as if he’d been discussing a business transaction. For now.

Every second that passed was another chance for him to change his mind, another moment she could slip away from me for good. Panic scraped against my ribs, raw and sharp, but underneath was something colder. A fury that settled deep in my bones.

I would find her. Nothing would stop me. I would tear the world open and torch every obstacle in my path if that was what it took to get her back. Even if it destroyed me.

Because without her, no part of me was worth saving.

Chapter 35

Lana

The first thing that registered was cold so sharp it felt like a thousand blades carving into my skin. One second I was drifting somewhere between pain and nothingness, and the next a torrent of freezing water crashed over me, stealing the air from my lungs. I gasped, a sharp, broken exhale that scraped my throat raw. The shock was immediate and violent.

My hands pushed against the floor, fighting to move, to shield myself, but my body wouldn’t obey; my muscles spasmed, jerking in protest. I didn’t know where I was. The world spun sideways. My ears rang, my vision blurred, every breath like inhaling shards of glass. I tasted metal and dirt on my tongue, and my wet hair clung to my face, dripping cold trails down my neck. The concrete beneath me was slick, puddled, unforgiving against my bare palms.

Laughter cut through the ringing in my ears. “Rise and shine.” The bearded man stood over me with an empty bucket dangling from his hand. He looked pleased with himself.

My heart pounded so hard it drowned out thought. I blinked, disoriented, shivering uncontrollably as droplets rolled down my eyelashes. The shock left me trembling and nauseous, my mind scrambling to catch up, to understand what had happened. Not just the cold, the violence of it, the cruelty of being torn awake like that, as if I was nothing more than a body to be jolted back to life.

Another shape filled the doorway, and everything in the room shifted around him. The bearded man straightened, his smirk vanishing, head bowing in deference.

Damian Costa.

I didn’t need an introduction; I knew it the instant I saw him.

He moved with the kind of easy confidence that didn’t need to announce itself. No flashy suit, no gold watch, no need to prove anything. His dark eyes were steady and unreadable, framed by sharp features that might have been handsome if they weren’t so devoid of warmth. His gaze swept over me, cold and appraising, and his mouth curved into a smirk.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and mocking, “looks like you’re awake now.”

I said nothing. My throat was too raw, and my pride too thin to waste on giving him the satisfaction.

He took a few steps closer, the soles of his shoes clicking against the concrete. “You know what I admire about you, Mrs. Blackwell? You see what you want, and you take it. You’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. Most people hesitate when it comes down to taking action, but not you.”

My pulse spiked, every word scraping against me. “If you think I killed Richard for money‒”

He laughed, holding up a hand to stop me. “I’m sure you have a good story. Unfortunately for you, I don’t care.”

I tried again, my voice shaking but firm. “I don’t have your money. I never did.”

He crouched in front of me, his tone almost conversational. “See, that’s the thing about marriage. What’s his is yours, what’s yours is his, and that includes debt.” He smiled, eyes gleaming. “Which means you owe me, Mrs. Blackwell.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach. I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking uncontrollably. My teeth clattered so hard it hurt. “You can’t collect what doesn’t exist,” I said, though I couldn’t hide the uncertainty from my voice.