Page 92 of Freedom’s Inferno

Mike’s voice broke the moment. “Your brother-in-law sent the mick.”

Costa’s jaw tensed, annoyance flickering like a crack in his composure. “Mr. McCallister,” he greeted, his tone clipped, the name half a reprimand. He leaned back against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. “Where’s my nephew?”

Something in Elliott’s expression changed at the question. The faint grief in his eyes hardened into something else. Guilt, maybe, or anger barely contained. His jaw flexed.

“Luca’s unavailable,” he said, his voice full of disdain. “And clearly, you’re overdue for a real conversation with your brother-in-law.” He hesitated for a breath, then added, “Wulf sent me. Sorry to disappoint you, Damian.”

His eyes cut to mine again, fingers skimming the top three buttons of his shirt—first, second, third—then he tore his gaze away.

Fuck him. I hope this moment eats him alive every single night for the rest of his miserable life.

Costa’s smile vanished. The silence that followed was tight and dangerous, like the pause before a storm breaks. Costa exhaled, the tension draining from his face into something smoother. Controlled again, but edged with impatience. “Give me the paperwork, Elliott.”

Elliott shifted the blue folder tucked under his arm, the polished corporate veneer of it looking absurdly out of place in a room that smelled like rust and old oil. He handed it over without ceremony, but his eyes flicked toward me again as he did, quick, assessing.

Costa flipped through the papers without looking up. “Tell the old man to pick up the fucking phone next time I call,” he said, not bothering to disguise the venom in his voice. “I don’t want to hear from a proxy.”

Elliott’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Wulf does what he wants. You know that. And he’s… preoccupied lately.” His tone carried something careful underneath it, a warning or an apology, I couldn’t tell.

Costa looked up, and whatever patience he’d been faking vanished. “We’re done here.”

Elliott nodded once, like he’d been waiting to hear those words. Relief flickered through his features so fast it might have been imagined. He turned for the door without another word, though before he crossed the threshold, he hesitated long enough to glance at me a final time. That look lingered—brief, but unmistakably regretful. Then he was gone, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud that echoed in the silence he left behind.

Costa set the folder on the desk, his attention sliding back to me. The amusement had returned. Whatever had passed between him and Elliott McCallister didn’t matter now. Costa’s fingers drummed once against the blue folder before he set it flat on the desk, aligning the corners casually. He studied me for a long moment.

Then he finally spoke, his tone almost conversational. “Here’s what’s going to happen. By now, I’m sure you’ve heard the news that the insurance will pay out for the building we torched.” He tapped the folder once, sharp in the quiet. “You’re going to sign over that money to my brother-in-law’s construction company,” he continued. “Everything neat, above board. A touching little story about rebuilding after tragedy.”

“And then what?” I asked, my voice flat, steady in a way that carried its own danger.

Costa’s smile deepened, an amused chuckle slipping from his throat. “And then what,” he repeated, as if tasting the words. He didn’t answer. Just leaned back, the faintest laugh escaping him, low and cruel.

The door behind me screeched open, and my stomach turned before I looked.

The bearded man came in, dragging Lana by the arm.

She stumbled as he yanked her forward, her feet slipping on the concrete. Her clothes were damp clinging to her like a second skin, and her hair matted and tangled hung in limp curls around her face. A line of blood crusted along her temple, a bruise forming beneath it. She shivered, her lips pale, her eyes darting wildly across the room until they found me.

The second she saw me, she tried to break free. “Charlie!”

The sound of my name from her lips tore straight through me, igniting a rage so primal and immediate it felt older than reason.

She lurched toward me, but the man jerked her back hard enough that she cried out, sharp and small and furious.

“Control her, Tony,” Costa said without looking, his tone one of mild irritation, like she was an unruly pet.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man, Tony, snapped, dragging her into the corner. His voice was gravel, his hand still tight around her arm. She went still at that, her breath quick and shallow, her wide eyes locked on me.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Seeing her like that—shaking, terrified, filthy—hit me like a punch to the chest. Every instinct in me screamed to cross the room, to tear the man’s hand off her, to put myself between them, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Not without getting her killed.

Costa watched me with an almost lazy satisfaction, his gaze flicking between us like he was observing some small, predictable experiment.

“This is touching,” he said, the smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “You two got close, didn’t you? I could see it in the photos.” His eyes cut toward Lana briefly, assessing. “Tragic, really. Always the ones who think they can save each other.”

My jaw clenched. “All right,” I said, forcing my voice through the burn in my throat. “I’ll sign the papers. You get what you want. Then what? You let us go?”

Costa’s laugh was soft this time, almost pitying. “Let you go?” He shook his head, clicking his tongue as if disappointed. “Come on, Mr. Sterling. You’re smarter than that.”

He moved around the desk, stopping a few feet in front of me. “If word got out that I let a man play cat and mouse with me for over a week, that I torched his building and still let him walk away?” He gave a small shrug. “That would ruin me. My reputation is everything. It keeps people in line. Keeps them afraid.”