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I move fast, through chaos and noise, straight to the corner booth where the target sits.

He’s the son of one of the Volkov lieutenants. The boy’s clearly in his early to mid-twenties, clean-shaven with tattoos all over his body and at least five piercings on his face.

He’s trying desperately to look like a man because this world chews up boys.

I can relate. I was like him once, so I know how dangerous and unreasonable he might be. When he spots us, his eyes widen and his right hand shoots toward his waistband.

Dashing across the room, my fist finds his jaw before he can finish drawing his weapon. His head snaps sideways. Blood sprays from his mouth as he crumples, his glazed eyes struggling to focus.

His gun drops to the ground, and he presses back into the booth like cornered prey, raising his hands to protect his face from another punch.

“Get up,” I order.

He stumbles to his feet, bound before he even registers what’s happened. His breath reeks of vodka and adrenaline.

We drag him out through the rear exit. Outside, rain falls in sheets. Once we shove him into the van, the engine roars back to life. Marco kills the tracking feeds, leaving no trace.

Ten minutes later, we stop beneath a bridge. The boy shivers, his cheeks streaked with tears and rain.

I crouch in front of him. He flinches, attempting to scoot backward even though there’s nowhere to go.

“Look at me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

I grip his jaw. “I said look at me.”

His eyes—the pupils blow wide in terror—snap open.

“Tell your father the Benedettis still know how to bite.” My voice is soft and conversational. That’s always worse. “If he touches anything of ours again, I’ll rip his world apart piece by piece.” I lean closer. “Starting with you.”

“Please—” His voice breaks. “Please don’t⁠—”

“I’m not going to kill you tonight.” I release his jaw. “But next time? There won’t be a phone call. There won’t be a warning. Just a body bag.”

The kid’s lips tremble, and tears stream down his face. “I understand.”

We leave him under the bridge, his wrists still bound, a phone taped to his chest with a recording ready to play once he’s found. Peace has a price. So does defiance.

By the time we return to the compound, my blood’s humming with that old familiar buzz.

Marco relaxes back in his seat, exhaling smoke. “Well, that’ll make headlines in Moscow.”

“Good,” I say. “Let them choke on it.”

If the Volkovs roar tomorrow, Gabi will curse my name. But none of that matters.

For tonight, we bought time. For now, Sophia’s safe.

Vincent’s shown his face, which means I can teach him that borrowed time always comes due. I’ll do anything to ensure Sophia doesn’t have to continue to suffer for his actions.

Chapter 19

Sophia

My mind won’t stop racing with unanswered questions.

Questions like whether telling Enzo about my father was the right thing.