I couldn’t keep the question inside any longer. The silence between Petros and me had stretched taut, heavy enough to press against my ribs like stone. I had to know.
“I’ve lived in California my wh-whole life,” I said, voice rough from the screaming, the fighting, the adrenaline still rasping through my throat. “I know exactly how deadly The Labyrinth is. No street lights. No cops. No r-rules. No mercy. Does he... does Ruslan plan to hurt me there?”
Petros didn’t flinch, didn’t glance my way. Hands steady on the wheel, eyes scanning the freeway ahead. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” he said, tone clipped, professional, as though emotion was a weakness he had long ago discarded.
“Of course you would,” I snapped, sharper than I intended, the fear in my chest twisting into irritation. “He looked at me on the altar like he wanted me six feet under already. I saw it—ice in his eyes, the kind of calm that only someone who kills for sport can carry.”
Petros’s jaw tightened. Not enough to break his mask of neutrality. “The priest gave you a choice,” he said slowly, carefully, as though weighing every word. “Harris or Ruslan. You weren’t dragged to the altar in chains. You made the decision.Deep down, you know why you chose him. So brace yourself for whatever fate has waiting.”
I turned to the window, gripping the cool leather of the door, watching city lights streak past in gold and red, distorted by speed and adrenaline. “The decision... it was in the moment,” I whispered, almost to myself. “I didn’t think. I just... couldn’t stomach the idea of being Harris’s wife. Too many red flags. Too much public humiliation. Too much everything. And this... this feels like stepping into a storm.”
Petros gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. No encouragement, no warning. Just... acknowledgment. The kind that reminds you how powerless you really are.
The freeway gave way to darker streets.
Buildings became squat, abandoned, their windows boarded or shattered. Graffiti crawled up every surface like black veins, a city bleeding neglect and danger.
Shadows moved in the corners of my vision—figures exchanging quick gestures, hoods pulled low, the glint of metal catching moonlight for a fraction of a second. The air thickened, smelling of diesel, weed, and something sour I couldn’t place.
The car slowed, gliding silently through the darkness.
Petros turned sharply through a gap in a rusted iron barricade, tires crunching over gravel and broken concrete.
We rolled into a wide, open-air space that had once been a loading yard. Now it was something else entirely.
No roof. Only the indifferent night sky stretched overhead, a silver moon casting light over a stage of ruin. Rows of mismatched metal tables and chairs were arranged in loose semicircles. A long counter ran along one wall—once a service line, now bare except for a few flickering propane lanterns, their light painting the cracked concrete in ghostly yellow pools.
There were no cooks. No waitstaff. No music. Only the low, distant hum of traffic and the occasional scrape of boots on metal.
Petros killed the engine. Silence fell like a heavy cloth, pressing against my ears.
I opened the door before he could speak, stepping out and letting the night air wrap around me. It smelled of dust, decay, and something metallic—blood, perhaps.
My legs were unsteady, soreness pulling at every muscle from the street fight, from the adrenaline, from the tension. I took a careful step, then another, following Petros’s tall, silent figure.
He moved ahead with purpose, efficient, unyielding. I trailed him, trying to match his rhythm, every sense stretched taut, alert.
Then he stopped.
I froze.
I turned.
He was gone. Petros had retreated silently down a side passage—vanished like smoke.
My pulse roared in my ears. The metallic taste of fear filled my mouth.
I was alone.
The lanterns flickered weakly.
Shadows stretched long and jagged, draping the cracked concrete in shapes that seemed to move when I blinked.
Every instinct screamed that I should run, hide, vanish, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not now.
And then I saw him.
He emerged from the far edge of the yard like a storm taking shape, silhouette black and lethal under the moonlight.
