10 - Sofia
Iwait until 2 AM, when the compound settles into its deepest quiet. The darkness presses against my windows like a living thing. I’ve been tracking the guards’ patterns through sound alone—footsteps in the corridor, the distant murmur of voices changing shift, the mechanical hum of cameras rotating on their mounts.
Security is tighter now. Guards doubled. Cameras monitored constantly, or so he thinks.
But I've learned the compound's rhythms like a lover's heartbeat. The guard who smokes at 2:15, Turkish cigarettes that stain the air with clove, leaving his post for exactly seven minutes. The camera in the east corridor that has a four-second lag when it pans, the mechanical whir barely audible. The service entrance that's alarmed but not watched, its red light blinking like a sleepy eye.
Tonight, I move.
The lockpick slides from my hair—titanium alloy, thin as a credit card, warm from my body heat. Milo's gift feels like salvation between my fingers. My bare feet make no sound on the cold marble, each step calculated, weight distributed the way Nico taught me. The floors are ice against my skin, numbing, but I embrace the discomfort. It keeps me sharp, keeps me from thinking about how Alexei's hands felt hot enough to brand.
Through corridors I've memorized, past the sleeping guard. Different one than before—I note the rotation change, file it away. His snores smell like vodka. The service entrance alarmdisables with a trick Nico taught me years ago, fingertips finding the right pressure points on the keypad.
I grab a guard's jacket from a hook—leather and cigarette smoke, too big but necessary—pull it over my cotton dress. The weight of it reminds me of Alexei's hands on my shoulders after yesterday's sparring, possessive and claiming.
Into the cold Chicago night. The concrete bites into my bare feet, sharp and numbing. My breath clouds in the air, and I taste exhaust and distant rain. Sirens wail somewhere south—another night in the city that never really sleeps. Each step away from the compound feels like betrayal. Each step feels like freedom.
My body throbs with the memory of his fingers inside me, the way he played me like an instrument only he knew how to tune. Even now, even escaping, I'm wet thinking about it.
A parking garage, one mile from the compound. I make it in twelve minutes, sticking to shadows that smell like piss, avoiding cameras that sweep predictable arcs. My feet are completely numb now, leaving bloody prints on rougher patches of concrete. Level three, northwest corner. Flickering fluorescents cast everything in a sickly green. A black SUV, lights off, engine ticking as it cools.
I approach from the blind spot—force of habit. The oil-stained concrete is slick under my frozen feet. I tap the trunk twice, pause, tap once. Our old signal from when he trained me, when I was twelve and thought knowing seventeen ways to kill a man made me powerful.
The driver's door opens with a soft click.
Nico unfolds from the seat like a weapon being drawn. Six-two, lean muscle that speaks of function over form, dark hair buzzed military-short. He moves with lethal economy, every gesture deliberate. The middle brother. The one who turned me into this—weapon, spy, survivor.
"You look like shit," he says, his eyes already searching for wounds I'm not showing.
"Love you too."
He pulls me into a hug—brief, fierce, his arms careful around me like I might shatter. He smells like gun oil and the cinnamon mints he chews since quitting smoking. When he releases me, his tactical assessment continues. "Any injuries?"
My throat burns with phantom pressure, remembering Alexei's grip. "I'm fine, Nico."
"That's not what I asked."
"I'm handling it."
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping. I can see the restraint it takes for him not to throw me in the SUV and drive straight back to the compound. To go in guns blazing and paint the walls with Russian blood. But that's not the mission. I made him promise—intelligence first, extraction only if I call for it.
He hands me a burner phone—a new one that still has that fresh electronics smell. "Marco's losing his mind. Wants to storm the compound."
"Marco always wants to storm something."
"Dante's the one holding him back. Says to trust you." Nico's eyes meet mine, hazel in this light, steady as a sniper's aim. "I trust you. But I need to know you're okay. Really okay."
His fingers were inside me, Nico. I came apart in his arms and wanted more.
The words die unspoken, turn to ash on my tongue. Instead, I pull the folded paper from inside my dress—notes made on toilet paper with eyeliner, written in a code only we know. The paper is damp with sweat, my sweat, from being pressed against my skin during the escape.
"He took me to a Russian gala. I mapped the room." My voice stays steady even as my body remembers Alexei breaking Tork's fingers for touching me. "Volkov's allies. The Petrovs are solid—old money, old loyalty. Caviar breath and ancient grudges. But the Kuzmin bratva is shaky. I watched Viktor Kuzmin talking on his phone all night, stepping away from Alexei, avoiding eye contact like a beaten dog."
Nico takes the paper, scans it with eyes that process tactical data like other people breathe. His expression sharpens—the soldier engaging. "You think the Kuzmins are looking to flip?"
"I think they're hedging. Volkov's been focused on his vendetta against us. The other families are getting restless. If we could approach Kuzmin quietly…"
"Turn one of his allies." The smile that curves his mouth is sharp as any blade.
