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“Now,” I twirl the knife once, “let’s talk about that duffel. Where’d you get it?” I speak almost gently. I’ve used this voice enough times.
Men know that the softness means they should pray.
“Found it.” Gold Chain grins through crimson teeth.
My jaw locks as heat crawls up my spine. “Wrong answer. I hate my time being wasted. You’re not trying to stall for time, are you?”
When he mutters instead of responding, I press my knife to his thigh. The tip bites through denim and finds skin.
Gold Chain goes rigid. “Wait. Wait…”
From the floor, Butterfly Knife—still clutching his side, blood seeping between his fingers—coughs. His voice comes out weak and desperate. “It was a payment. Down payment.” His eyes dart between Marco and me, terrified. “Russians wanted the Martinelli girl. Told us she was…leverage.”
The word hits me like a fist to the gut.
Ice floods my veins, and my vision tunnels. The warehouse fades to background noise.
Only one thing matters.
Sophia.
My white-knuckled grip tightens on the knife handle.
“Someone hired you to grab her?” My voice comes out flat. Dead. The kind of quiet that precedes violence.
Gold Chain flinches in his chair. His breath becomes shallow. Despite the cold, sweat beads on his forehead. “We didn’t…actually do it, man. We just took the money—”
Butterfly Knife whimpers from the floor. “Volkov wants her. Said she’s…valuable.”
Beside me, Marco stills. I can feel his eyes on me as he waits for orders.
Scarred Knuckles is still on his knees, moaning through his shattered nose.
Prison Tats blinks groggily in his chair, slowly piecing together what’s happening.
Acne Kid, still against the wall, has at least stopped crying. He’s frozen, barely breathing, and trying to disappear into the concrete.
“Volkov.” That name sours on my tongue. “Tell me everything. Now.”
The chair creaks as I lean in. “Who gave the order?”
“No names. Just the money. Said the girl’s dad burned bridges. They want her. The cash is prepayment for snatching her.”
My jaw twitches. Quiet, corrosive rage simmers within. “And the mother?”
“We don’t know where she is,” Scarred Knuckle chimes in, his voice broken. “Word is…Elena Martinelli knows laundering routes. Old secrets. Russians think the daughter knows some of that too.”
My chest constricts as possessiveness claws its way up my throat.
Sophia’s caught in this hurricane of blood, money, and vendettas. She doesn’t even know the number of predators circling or how deeply she’s marked.
I should feel nothing for the girl. She’s a Benedetti hostage, a mere tool and a means to an end. I should view this girl as nothing more than Vincent’s daughter, but I can’t. Not with the way she held her chin up on that highway. The way she hit that kid with a plank and then apologized for hitting him too hard. The way she talks to Gio like he’s worth saving. She doesn’t belong in our world, but she moves through it like someone who’s already survived the worst yet still chooses to build something gentle and safe for those children. That’s not weakness…that’s strength. And I have no business admiring it.
The thought of Volkov’s men putting their hands on her, dragging her into the dark…
My jaw clenches so violently, my teeth ache.
No.
