They force me into the back of the van, slamming me onto the metal floor. I kick wildly, connecting with something solid. One of them presses something cold and hard against my ribs—a gun barrel, unmistakable.
“Stay still or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
I freeze, breath coming in ragged gasps, every muscle locked with terror and adrenaline. The van doors slam shut. Engine revs. We’re moving.
The two men position themselves on either side of me, not speaking, just watching with the kind of professional detachment that makes this worse. This isn’t personal. This is a job.
I force myself to think through the panic. They haven’t killed me. They could have—would have been easier in the garage, quick and clean. They’re moving me somewhere, which means they want something. Information, leverage, or disposal in a location that won’t trace back.
The van turns onto a highway, the motion familiar enough that I track the route mentally. We’re heading out ofthe city, toward the industrial outskirts where warehouses and freight yards stretch for miles.
Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. The buildings thin, streetlights becoming sparse. Trees press close to the roadside, dark and dense.
They’re not trying to scare me. They’re relocating me somewhere isolated. Somewhere no one will hear.
Panic sharpens into cold calculation. I test my weight against the floor, measuring the distance to the door handle. The men are watching, but they’re not restraining me actively anymore. If I time it right, if I can reach the door—
Headlights flood the van’s interior, bright enough to make me squint. Two sets, coming up fast from behind. The driver swears and accelerates, but the vehicles match speed effortlessly.
Black SUVs, bracketing us on both sides.
One of the men pulls his gun, twisting toward the back window. “We’ve got company.”
The van swerves hard to the left. I’m thrown against the wall, shoulder slamming into metal. Gunshots crack through the night—sharp, deafening, glass shattering somewhere up front.
The driver loses control. The van lurches violently, tires screeching, then stops so abruptly I’m thrown forward onto my hands and knees.
Silence. Then shouting outside, more gunshots, the controlled chaos of violence happening just beyond the metal walls.
The back door is yanked open with brutal force. One of my captors is dragged out bodily, disappearing into the night with a strangled yell. The second man raises his gun toward the opening, but he’s too slow. Someone grabs the weapon, twistshis wrist with a sickening crack, and pulls him out after his partner.
Cold air rushes in. I scramble toward the open door and stumble onto the asphalt, disoriented, legs shaking too hard to support my weight properly.
The road is chaos. The white van sits crooked across both lanes, doors open, engine still running. The two black SUVs have it boxed in from front and back, headlights cutting harsh white beams through the darkness. Men in tactical gear move with precision, subduing my captors with efficiency that suggests extensive training.
Standing in the middle of it all, completely calm, is Felix Rudenko.
He’s wearing the same dark suit from the café, sleeves rolled to his forearms now, blood streaked across his knuckles. His pale eyes track me as I stand there shaking, taking in every detail of my disheveled appearance with an intensity that feels invasive.
He steps forward and wraps one hand around my upper arm, pulling me behind him in a motion that’s protective and possessive in equal measure. I’m too shocked to resist.
“You are no longer safe alone,” he says, his voice low and controlled despite the violence still unfolding around us.
I meet his eyes, breath coming in sharp gasps, fear mixing with fury and confusion. “From you?”
The question hangs in the cold air between us. He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze holding mine with an unreadable intensity. Behind him, one of his men drags the younger captor past us, the man’s face bloodied, arms restrained behind his back.
Felix’s hand tightens slightly on my arm. “From everyone,” he says finally, and the certainty in his tone makes my stomach drop.
I realize, standing on this dark road surrounded by armed men and shattered glass, that I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross. Whatever world Ethan stumbled into, whatever secrets got him killed, I’m standing in the middle of it now.
Felix Rudenko just claimed me as his responsibility.
Whether that means protection or possession, I don’t know.
Chapter Seven - Felix
The drive to the estate takes thirty-two minutes through increasingly rural roads that empty of traffic until we’re the only headlights cutting through the darkness.
