I made it three steps before arms grabbed me from behind—another man, one I hadn't seen. I screamed and fought, driving my elbow back into his stomach, raking my nails across his face. He cursed, and his grip loosened. I twisted free and ran again.
The scarred man caught me by the hair.
Pain exploded across my scalp as he yanked me backward. I fell against him, still fighting, kicking at his shins, clawing at his hands. He laughed—actually laughed—and wrapped an arm around my throat, cutting off my air.
"Stop fighting," he said against my ear. "Or I'll hurt you worse than I need to."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My vision was going dark at the edges, my lungs burning. I clawed at his arm, but he was too strong.
"The boss wants her alive," another voice said. "Don't damage her too much."
The pressure on my throat eased slightly. I gasped for air, choking, my legs giving out beneath me. The scarred man held me up like I weighed nothing.
"Search her."
Hands patted me down—rough, impersonal. They found nothing. I had nothing—no weapon, no phone, nothing that could help me.
"Clean," someone reported.
The scarred man turned me to face him, his hand still tangled in my hair. Up close, I could see the cruelty in his eyes—the pleasure he took in my fear.
"Mrs. Chernov," he said, savoring the name. "Mr. Pankratov sends his regards. He's been wanting to meet you for a long time."
"Go to hell."
He backhanded me across the face. Stars exploded behind my eyes. I tasted blood.
"Careful," the other man said. "Pankratov wants her in one piece."
"One piece doesn't mean undamaged." The scarred man grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "Your husband killed a lot of our people. Destroyed shipments, territories, years of work. The boss wants to return the favor." His eyes dropped to my stomach, and something shifted in his expression. "Is it true? You're carrying his child?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer, even if I'd wanted to.
He smiled—a terrible smile, full of dark promise. "Pankratov will be pleased. A wife is leverage. A child is a dynasty."
They bound my hands behind my back with zip ties that bit into my wrists. Someone threw a hood over my head, plunging me into darkness. Then they were dragging me through the house, over debris and bodies I couldn't see, out into the evening air that smelled of smoke and salt.
I heard the crash of waves, the rumble of a boat engine. Hands shoved me forward, and I stumbled down what felt like a gangplank, landing hard on a metal deck.
The hood was ripped off.
I blinked in the fading light, my eyes adjusting. I was on a speedboat, surrounded by armed men. Behind us, the island was burning—flames licking from windows, black smoke rising against the twilight sky. The house I'd come to think of as home, the prison that had become a sanctuary, consumed by fire.
And somewhere in the wreckage—Yelena, Kirill, everyone who'd tried to protect me.
Were they alive? Dead? I didn't know. Couldn't know.
The boat's engine roared, and we pulled away from the shore. The island grew smaller and smaller, a dark shape against the orange glow of flames, until it was just a speck on the horizon.
Then it was gone.
I sat on the cold metal deck, my hands bound, my face throbbing where the man had struck me, and watched the Mediterranean stretch endless and dark in every direction.
Vasily was somewhere in the sky, flying back to an island that was already lost. He'd land to find ashes and blood and the knowledge that he'd failed to protect me. Failed to protect us.
Come back to me, I'd said.
But I wouldn't be there when he did.
