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The man stands over us, gun still smoking. "Pathetic," he spits out, but his triumph tastes of ash.
"Look what you made me do," he says, as if it's my fault Martin lies dead.
Chapter 45
Philippe
The black Hummer purrs down the dusty country road as my men scan the overgrown fields. My knuckles clench the steering wheel. Where is she?
“There,” Luca points to an abandoned farmhouse through the open window as he rides on his bike next to me. The weathered boards of the farm tilt at odd angles. “That's what we saw on the camera.”
The driver slams the brakes, and the convoy of cars screeches to a stop, dust swirling around us. “Fan out. Search every inch of it.”
My men pour from the vehicles, weapons drawn. The farmhouse door creaks open, and my heart leaps—but it’s only the wind.
Inside, cobwebs drape across broken furniture. “Clear!” Luca shouts from upstairs.
I stride through each room, my boots crunching on debris—no sign of Tatiana. My chest tightens as I picture her terrified, hiding somewhere in this rotting place, wondering where I am and why I’ve not yet come to save her.
When the others return empty-handed, rage boils in my veins. I stride outside and kick a rusted oil drum, sending it clanging across the yard.
“Boss.” Luca approaches cautiously. “We’ve searched everywhere. She’s not here.”
I drag a hand through my hair, my knuckles throbbing. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots softly. The stars are icy pinpricks in the inky sky. The night is eerily quiet. Too quiet.
My fingers curl around the grip of my gun. “She’s close. I can feel it.” I glance at my men, their faces grim in the pale moonlight. “We keep searching.”
No one questions me. Within moments, we’re roaring down the road again, more determined than ever. Tatiana’s out there somewhere. And I’m going to find her.
Luca speeds up beside me, his motorcycle growling. “Boss, I know some abandoned properties about a mile from here. Old farmhouses and warehouses. Perfect hideouts.”
My pulse quickens. “Lead the way.”
We race through the night, following Luca down a rutted dirt road. Up ahead, dilapidated buildings loom against the starry sky.
This could be it. My gut twists with anticipation and dread. But what if we’re too late?
And why did Martin bring Tatiana here, of all places? He could have taken her to a safe space in public. A restaurant. His house. The opera house. The more I think of it, the more things feel wrong.
I urge the driver to get into the next gear, quickly outpacing Luca. I don’t wait for the others before I leap off the still-running car and draw my gun, stalking towards the nearest farmhouse.
The wooden door creaks open. I step inside, my finger poised on the trigger. Moonlight filters through broken windows, shadows lurking in every corner.
“Tatiana?” My voice echoes through the musty rooms. No response.
I move on to the next building, my men fanning out behind me. We search each one swiftly and methodically.
But she’s not here.
With a roar of rage, I slam my fist into a wall. The drywall crumbles around my knuckles. Tatiana, where are you?
We’re missing something: some clue, some lead. I rack my brain, trying to think like a spy.
Then it hits me. Rosalie Battaglia. Felix Carlisi's formidable wife.
I pull out my phone and dial her number. At nearly midnight, she answers on the first ring.
“Rosalie, it’s Philippe. I need your help.”
