I lunged forward, vision tunneling, blood roaring in my ears.
Six men. Twelve guns, minimum. I didn’t care. I would have torn through bone and bullet alike. I would have set this entire prison parking lot on fire and watched it burn if it meant dragging her back to me.
My foot barely left the ground before Petros’s hand clamped onto my arm like iron.
“Sir,” he hissed into my ear, breath hot with panic. “That’s Dario Voss and his five brothers—the notorious gang that rules the entire New York mafia. Credible sources say they’re Elena’s foster brothers... they won’t harm her, sir.
The name slowed time.
Petros pressed closer, voice low but urgent. “The Voss family... they’ve been watching, waiting. If you lay a hand on any of them, it won’t just be trouble—it’ll be war. Real war. And... Elena isn’t in the right state of mind to stay with you, sir. She just lost her baby. She’s fragile, broken. Being with you now... it could only hurt her more. Please, let her go with her brothers.”
My body locked in place, every muscle screaming for violence while my mind calculated the cost.
And the cost was her.
I watched—utterly helpless, something vital being ripped out of me—as Elena allowed herself to be folded gently into the back seat of the central Lamborghini. No resistance. No hesitation.
Dario slid in beside her, one arm braced behind her shoulders, shielding her from the world with instinctive ownership.
The doors closed with soft, expensive thuds.
Final.
Engines roared to life.
Three yellow beasts peeled away in flawless formation, tires spitting gravel like gunfire, disappearing down the access road with predatory grace.
My wife.
Taken.
From me.
The sky split open without warning.
Fat, icy raindrops slammed down, soaking through my clothes in seconds, turning dust into mud beneath my shoes.
The temperature dropped sharply, the world dimming as if the heavens themselves recoiled.
My knees gave out.
I collapsed hard, breath knocked from my lungs, palms sinking into wet gravel.
Petros scrambled, fumbling with the umbrella, trying to shield me from the downpour. “Sir—please—”
“Leave it,” I rasped, throat shredded raw. “Leave the keys on the trunk and go.”
“Sir—”
“That’s an order.”
For a moment, he hesitated. Then he nodded once, sharp and miserable.
He placed the key fob carefully on the open trunk lid—as if afraid to disturb something sacred—and turned away, his footsteps retreating into the curtain of rain.
I stayed.
The rain came harder, merciless, needles stinging my face, my eyes, my wounds.
