"Alexei, status," I call out, not taking my eyes off the wounded attacker.
"Bleeding but functional. Hannah—she's okay. Shaken, but okay."
The relief that floods through me is almost painful. I want to go to her immediately, need to put my hands on her and confirm for myself that she's alive and whole. But first, I need answers.
I grab the wounded man by his collar and haul him upright, ignoring his cry of pain. "Who sent you?"
He spits blood at my feet. "Go to hell."
I press my thumb into his gunshot wound, and his defiance turns into a scream.
"Who. Sent. You."
"Dante, wait—" Alexei appears beside me, limping, one hand pressed to his ribs. "I know him. That's Ivan Petrov. He works for?—"
"Bogdan," Ivan gasps out, the name torn from him by pain. "Bogdan sent us. Said to make it look like a random attack,said the Bratva would be better off without you and your distractions."
The words confirm what I've been suspecting, but hearing it still feels like a betrayal carved into my chest. My own cousin. My own blood.
"Who else?" I demand. "Who else is involved?"
"Your uncle." Ivan's laugh is bitter. "Radimir sanctioned it. Said you'd gone soft, said the elders would thank us for cleaning up the family's problems."
Radimir. Of course. This was never just about Richard Quinn's supposed theft. This was about power, about removing me and installing someone more... compliant.
"Keep him alive," I tell Alexei. "He's our proof. Get him to the room."
Then I'm moving toward Hannah, who's still standing where Alexei left her, covered in blood that I pray isn't hers. Her green eyes are wide with shock, her face too pale, but she's upright. She's breathing. She's alive.
I reach her and cup her jaw with both hands, tilting her face up to mine. There's a smear of blood on her cheek—someone else's blood, I realize with savage satisfaction—and her hair is tangled with debris from the crash.
She's never looked more beautiful.
"You're mine, Red," I say, my forehead pressed to hers, my voice rough with emotions I can barely contain. "Say it. You will not leave me. Do you understand?"
She tries to not.
“Say it, Red. Say it.”
"I'm yours," she whispers. The surrender in her voice breaks something open inside me.
I kiss her then, deep and claiming, in front of my men and the dying attackers and God himself. Let them all see. Let them all know. This woman is mine, and anyone who tries to take her from me will die screaming.
When I finally pull back, her lips are swollen and her eyes are dazed, but there's something fierce there too. She fought today. Defended herself and our child with the training I gave her.
She's not the frightened captive I brought to my estate weeks ago.
She's a survivor. A fighter.
Mine.
"Secure the scene," I order my men without looking away from Hannah. "I want this cleaned up in the next hour. No trace, no witnesses except Ivan. And get Alexei medical attention—carefully. I want him checked at a private facility, no hospitals. This needs to look like a job completed. No one knows Hannah walked away from this. I want to be the one to inform them."
"Boss, the other escort vehicle—" one of my men starts.
"Handle it. Now."
They scatter to follow orders. Within minutes, the underpass is swarming with people who know how to make violence disappear.
