His fingers dig into my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You think you’re clever? You think your little games matter? Mikhail will come for you, and when he does, I’ll make him watch while I destroy everything he loves.”
I hold his stare, refusing to flinch. “You already tried that. It didn’t work.”
He releases me with a shove that makes my head crack against the pipe. Stars burst across my vision, but I don’t cry out. Won’t give him the satisfaction.
“The difference,” Lorenzo says, pulling out his phone, “is that this time, I’m not leaving anything to chance. No bombs with simple wiring. No opportunities for heroics. Just you, chained and helpless, while Mikhail watches you die.”
He taps something on his screen, and I hear the mechanical whir of cameras activating around the warehouse.
Red lights blink to life in the shadows, at least six that I can see. He’s streaming this.
Of course he is.
Maximum psychological damage.
“Smile for your husband,” Lorenzo says, angling his phone toward me. “Let him see what his love has cost you.”
I stare into the camera lens and think of Mikhail.
Of his green eyes that can be so cold but burn with heat when he looks at me.
Of his hands that have killed so many but touch me with unexpected tenderness.
Of the way he whispered my name in the safe house, like a prayer and a curse combined.
I look into the camera and tell Mikhail not to come, that it’s a trap.
Lorenzo laughs, lowering the phone. “How touching. But we both know he’s already on his way. Probably tearing through the city right now, desperate and reckless. Exactly how I want him.”
He moves away, checking his watch. “He has fifty-three minutes before I start removing pieces of you. Fingers first, I think. Then toes. We’ll see how long you can maintain that brave facade.”
The moment his back is turned, I shift my weight and reach down, my fingers finding the edge of the device taped to my thigh.
It’s small, no bigger than a USB drive, but it’s everything.
I peel it free slowly, carefully, keeping my movements minimal. The chain rattles slightly, and Lorenzo glances back.
I freeze, my hand palming the device against my leg.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“Just trying to get comfortable.” I shift again, this time deliberately making the chain rattle louder. “These aren’t exactly ergonomic.”
He snorts and returns his attention to his phone, typing something. Probably updating his men on Mikhail’s expected arrival time.
I use the noise of the chain to mask the soft click as I activate the device.
It’s a signal jammer, military grade, courtesy of Ricardo Castellano’s extensive arsenal.
Tony helped me acquire it three days ago when I asked for one, not knowing why I needed it.
He asked, but respected my non-answer.
Back then, I never thought I’d go through with it.
Or need to go through with it.
The red lights on the cameras flicker once, twice, then die. Lorenzo’s phone screen goes dark.
