I study the blueprints until my eyes blur, memorizing every corridor and stairwell. Mikhail keeps glancing at me, and I know he sees the exhaustion I’m trying to hide.
But he doesn’t push.
He understands that I need this, to be part of saving my brother.
Or so I thought.
“You’re staying in the vehicle,” he says when we’re alone, preparing our weapons.
“Like hell I am.” I check the magazine in my Glock, the weight familiar in my hands now. “That’s my brother in there.”
“Which is exactly why you should stay back.” Mikhail catches my wrist, his touch gentle despite the urgency in his voice. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re exhausted, you’ve been sick all morning, and Lorenzo will use that against you.”
“I’m going.” I meet his gaze steadily. “You can’t stop me.”
Something shifts in his expression, a mixture of frustration and admiration. “I almost lost you when we saved Melinda. I…can’t do that again. Stay right next to me. No unnecessary risks. And if I tell you to run, you run. Understood?”
I nod, even though we both know I won’t run if it means leaving Tony behind.
The factory looms against the night sky like a monument to decay. We approach in three vehicles, lights off, engines barely audible.
My heart hammers against my ribs as we park around the corner and move in on foot.
The nausea returns, stronger this time, and I have to stop and breathe through it. Mikhail’s hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezing once.
I squeeze back, drawing strength from his presence.
“Two guards at the main entrance,” Marco whispers through the comm. “Three more on the roof.”
“Take them out quietly,” Mikhail orders. “We don’t want Lorenzo knowing we’re here until we have Tony.”
I watch as our men move like shadows, efficient and deadly. The guards drop without a sound, and then we’re inside, moving through corridors that smell of rust and old machinery.
The building is too quiet.
No guards patrolling the halls, no sounds of activity.
Every instinct I’ve developed over these past weeks screams that something is wrong.
“It’s a trap,” I whisper to Mikhail.
“I know.” His jaw is tight, his weapon raised. “But we’re already committed.”
We find Tony on the second floor, in a room lit by a single bare bulb.
He’s tied to a chair in the center of the space, his head hanging forward, dark hair obscuring his face.
My breath catches at the sight of him.
“Tony!” I start forward, but Mikhail’s arm shoots out, stopping me.
“Wait,” he says, his voice low and urgent.
But I can’t wait.
That’s my brother, the person I’ve mourned for six years, and he’s right there.
I pull free from Mikhail’s grip and run to him.
