I think about Anna. Is she okay? Did she wake up? Is she telling Misha everything that happened, describing the men who took me, giving him something to work with?
I think about the baby. This tiny life that didn't ask to be conceived in chaos, that might never see the world outside this cell.
I think about my mother, who died bringing me into the world. Maybe that's my legacy. Maybe the Benedetti women are cursed to create life at the cost of their own.
No. I reject the thought before it can take root. I'm not going to die here. I'm not going to let Sergei win.
I struggle to sit up, managing after several attempts to prop myself against the cold concrete wall. The position is uncomfortable, my arms twisted behind me at an awkward angle, but at least I can see the door. At least I can see them coming.
I test my bonds again, more carefully this time. The zip ties are tight—professional grade, the kind that won't give no matter how much you struggle. But they're not perfect. Nothing is perfect.
I start working at them anyway. Twisting my wrists, testing for any give, any weakness. It's something to do. Something besides lying here waiting to be rescued or destroyed.
I don't know if Misha is coming. I don't know if he's even alive.
But I know this: I'm not going to die in this place. Neither is my child.
Whatever it takes. Whoever I have to become.
We're getting out of here.
Chapter 22 - Misha
The safe room is a crime scene.
I stand in the doorway, taking in the destruction. The reinforced door, buckled inward by breaching charges. The monitors, shattered, their screens dark. Overturned furniture, scattered debris, the acrid smell of explosives still hanging in the air.
And Anna—my sister—slumped against the far wall, blood matting her hair, her face pale in the dim emergency lighting.
I cross to her in three strides, my heart pounding. She's breathing. Unconscious but breathing. I check her pulse, her pupils, the wound on her head. Concussion, probably. Maybe worse. But alive.
"Anna." I tap her cheek gently. "Anna, wake up."
Her eyelids flutter. She groans, her hand reaching up to touch her head.
"Misha?" Her voice is slurred, confused. "What—where—"
"What happened? Where's Bianca?"
The question cuts through her confusion like a blade. Her eyes snap open, clarity flooding back along with something else. Horror. Grief.
"They took her." Her voice breaks on the words. "They blew the door—Petrov tried to stop them—I heard the gunfire, and then the explosion, and they were inside before we could—" She clutches my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "She fought, Misha. She fought so hard. But there were too many of them, and one of them hit me, and I—"
Tears stream down her face.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I couldn't stop them."
I stare at her, processing what she's saying. Bianca is gone. Sergei has her.
The entire assault—the coordinated strikes, the men dying on both sides, the desperate defense of the perimeter—all of it was a distraction. A diversion to keep me occupied while Sergei's real team slipped through the chaos and took her.
"How many?" I ask. My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Flat. Controlled. The voice of a man who has locked everything human away in a box and thrown away the key.
"Four. Maybe five. I couldn't—it was so fast, Misha. They knew exactly what they were doing."
"Did they say anything? Names, locations, anything?"
Anna shakes her head, then winces at the movement. "One of them called her by name. Said Sergei would be pleased. That's all I heard before—" She touches the wound on her head. "Before everything went dark."
