"We see the smoke from your chimney, Costa. The wolves left us a nice blood trail right to your front door. You're dead."
The transmission clicks off. The dead air that follows presses down harder than the blizzard raging against the timber walls.
Santi's expression turns rigid. The vulnerable, agonizingly raw man who just offered me the world vanishes in a fraction of a second. A lethal glacier takes his place. His gaze snaps toward the reinforced wooden door. His hair catches the dim, flickering light from the open stove. He is assessing. He is mapping every threat between us and the door.
My previous life involved pre-flight checklists, weather charts, and polite dismissals of arrogant men. My new life involves the wrecked helicopter, a wolf pack, and a mafia hit squad stalking my perimeter. My Yelp review for this particular charter flight is going to be incredibly hostile.
Santi moves. He crosses the room with silent, terrifying speed. He grabs the oak table sitting in the center of the cabin and shoves it against the front door. The wood groans in protest. He drops the iron crossbar, then shoves the oak table hard against the door for good measure.
"Get away from the window," he orders. His voice is low and dangerous. There is no panic in him. There is only a terrifying focus.
I drop to a crouch, moving away from the frosted glass. I press my back against the solid timber wall near the iron woodstove. The rough wood bites through my jacket. The wind howls outside, tearing at the roof shingles, driving needles of cold through every gap in the timber.
Santi crosses the room to his bag. He pulls out two spare magazines, his movements fluid and precise. He slides one into his pocket and slaps the other onto the dusty desk next to the useless radio.
Someone leaked our location.
The realization hits me with the force of a freight train. The voice on the radio, the encrypted military chatter from his brother Dominic earlier,the Bellanti file he chartered my helicopter to investigate. The puzzle pieces snap together in my mind. Santi’s family might control the North Side of Chicago, but the Bellantis have enough reach to bring their war to this frozen mountain.
"How many?" I ask. My voice is steady. I refuse to shake. I have survived a catastrophic helicopter failure and a trek through waist-deep snow. I will not cower for a group of men who need guns to feel powerful.
Santi checks the chamber of his primary weapon. "A scout team. The main extraction force is grounded until the storm breaks. These men moved ahead of the storm. Three, maybe four."
He looks at me. The stillness of his posture is unnerving. He is staring at the Glock in my hands.
Just two minutes ago, he stood in front of that door and gave me a choice. He told me I could walk away. He told me he would get me off this mountain and let me go back to my empty, quiet life. Or, I could stay. I could stand beside him in a war I did not start. He promised to burn his city to ashes to keep me safe.
He offered me the most terrifying thing in the world: absolute devotion.
I have known what dead silence feels like since I lost my father.
I built a fortress out of independence. I learned to fly helicopters because the sky does not ask for emotional vulnerability. I kept my distance. I needed no one.
Then this man boarded my helicopter. He smelled like cold wind, old paper, and gunmetal. He watched me wrestle a dying aircraft out of the sky without making a single sound. He bled for me. He stood guard over me in a freezing bark shelter. He claimed my body with a desperate reverence that dismantled every wall I ever built.
Now, the choice is here.
I look down at the heavy black weapon in my hands. It is loaded with hollow-point rounds. It is an instrument of death, handed to me by a man who lives in a world of violence.
"Cover the back door," Santi says. He points to the timber exit near the makeshift kitchen. "If the handle turns, you put three rounds directly into the center of the wood. You do not hesitate. You do not ask questions. You shoot."
I check the Glock the way my father taught me. Ready. The metallic clack is deafening in the small room.
"I won't hesitate," I say.
Santi pauses. He turns his head. The flames behind the open door of the iron woodstove illuminate the sharp, aristocraticlines of his jaw. His beard frames a mouth that has kissed me senseless. His dark eyes catalog my posture, my grip on the weapon, the stubborn tilt of my chin.
He nods once. A dark approval radiates from him.
Heavy boots crunch in the snow outside.
The sound is muffled by the screaming wind, but it is unmistakable. They are circling the cabin. They are probing the perimeter, looking for a weak point.
Aviation fuel, cold wind, gunmetal, and old paper crowd the room.
"Costa!" the voice yells from the front porch. It is barely audible over the howling gale. "Send the pilot out! We only want you! We'll let her walk down the mountain!"
A cold, bitter laugh escapes my throat.
