I’ve spent years building an empire based on patience and sharp-witted strategy. Today, strategy goes out the window. I’m operating on pure instinct and the kind of rage that could turn an entire room of trained thugs into a graveyard.
Luca wanted to send me a message by taking Danielle. The message I’m about to send back will be written in blood and fire, and it will be the last communication we ever have.
The convoy pulls out of the estate at exactly 9:33 a.m., six vehicles carrying twenty-four armed men toward a confrontation that will end with either Danielle safe in my arms or half of San Diego burning.
As we speed through traffic toward Mount Soledad, I make the same promise to myself that I made to Leo in my thoughts: I will bring her home, and Luca will never threaten my family again because he made a critical error when he went after the woman I love, who is carrying my daughter.
25
Danielle
Iwake to the taste of copper in my mouth and a throbbing headache that makes opening my eyes feel like staring directly into the sun. The world comes back in fragments as I become aware of rough rope binding my wrists behind what feels like a wooden chair.
My neck aches where they injected me with whatever drug knocked me unconscious, and my mouth feels cotton-dry beneath what I realize is duct tape stretched across my lips. I force myself to remain still while I assess my situation, keeping my breathing steady despite the panic clawing at my throat.
The room is dimly lit by a single overhead fixture but reveals bare walls and concrete flooring. There are no windows that I can see from my current position. I see solid walls that suggest I’m in a basement or some kind of converted storage space. The air is stale and cool, with an underlying chemical smell that makes my stomach churn.
I catalogue what I can see without moving my head too obviously. A metal door with multiple locks sits directly in front of me, flanked by two men in dark clothing who haven’t noticed I’m conscious yet. Their attention seems focused on something beyond the door, and I catch fragments of conversation conducted in low, serious tones.
My wrists are bound with what feels like zip ties rather than rope, cutting into my skin when I test the bonds carefully. The plastic restraints are tight enough to limit circulation but not tight enough to cause immediate damage. My ankles are similarly secured to the chair legs, though I can feel a slight give in the binding that suggests whoever tied them was less thorough than they should have been.
The baby. The thought crashes through my consciousness with nauseating force. I’m fifteen weeks pregnant, and whatever they injected me with could have harmed her. I try to remember what I know about pregnancy and drug interactions, but my medical knowledge is limited to basic first-aid and what I’ve read in pregnancy books.
I force myself to focus on more immediate concerns. Leo is safe at Little Scholar Academy until three-thirty, which gives me several hours before anyone will realize I’m missing. Aunt Molly isn’t expecting to hear from me until later this evening, and Carmen is working at the estate. No one knows where I am or that I’m in danger.
The realization should terrify me, but it sharpens my focus. If I’m going to survive this, if I’m going to protect my children from whatever these men have planned, I need to gather information and look for opportunities to escape or signal for help.
One of the guards shifts position, and I catch a glimpse of a gun holstered at his hip. Both men are armed, which confirms this isn’t a simple kidnapping for ransom. The professional way they’re positioned and the careful attention they’re paying to their surroundings suggests military or law enforcement training.
I close my eyes again and listen more carefully to the conversation happening beyond the door. The voices are muffled, but I can make out enough words to understand someone is coordinating with multiple teams about timing and positioning. This is an organized operation with careful planning behind it.
The metal door opens with a harsh screech that makes me flinch involuntarily. Heavy footsteps cross the concrete floor, and I feel someone studying me with attention that makes my skin crawl. I keep my eyes closed and my breathing even, hoping to maintain the pretense of unconsciousness for a few more minutes.
“I know you’re awake, Ms. Arden.” The voice is cultured and calm, with just enough accent to suggest Eastern European origins. “There’s no point in pretending otherwise.”
I open my eyes slowly and find myself looking at the same man who greeted me earlier. His carefully styled dark hair and expensive clothing doesn’t quite hide the predatory stillness in his posture. His face is unremarkable except for his eyes, which study me with cold calculation that makes every instinct I possess scream danger.
“My name is Luca Sokolov.” He settles into a chair across from me with casual confidence. “I apologize for the dramatic introduction, but subtlety has never been one of my strengths when it comes to making important points.”
I stare at him without responding, partly because the tape across my mouth prevents speech and partly because I don’t trust myself to remain calm if I try to talk. This is the man who sent someone to break into Radmir’s estate, who ordered the shooting at the ice cream shop that nearly killed Leo, and whose actions drove me to walk away from the only chance at happiness I’ve had in years.
“You’re wondering why you’re here, of course.” Luca crosses one leg over the other and leans back as if we’re having a casual conversation over coffee. “The answer is quite simple. You matter to Radmir Vetrov, which makes you valuable to me.”
He gestures to one of his men, who approaches and carefully removes the tape from my mouth. The adhesive pulls at my skin painfully, but I’m grateful to be able to breathe more freely.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “I’m nobody important. Just a woman who worked at his house for a few months.”
Luca’s laugh is genuinely amused. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, Ms. Arden. Men like Radmir don’t assign personal security details to women who are ‘nobody important.’ They don’t follow domestic staff to ice cream shops or spend hours reading bedtime stories to their children.”
The casual mention of Leo makes my heart skip several beats. “You’ve been watching us.”
“Of course, I have. Radmir has been very careful to keep his personal life separate from his business interests, but recent events have made that impossible.”
He pulls out his phone and shows me what appears to be surveillance photos of Radmir, Leo, and me at various locationsaround the city. “A man who’s spent fifteen years building walls around his private life doesn’t suddenly start appearing in public with a woman and child unless they mean something significant to him.”
I study the photos with growing horror. There are images of us at the park, the grocery store, and the ice cream shop where the shooting happened. Someone has been documenting our every move for weeks, and probably longer. “What do you want?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
“I want what Radmir has spent the last decade building. Control of the syndicate, the business relationships, and the territorial agreements.” Luca tucks away the phone and fixes me with that cold stare again. “Unfortunately, he’s proven remarkably stubborn about negotiating a peaceful transfer of power.”
