“I’ll come back for him,” I promise her through gritted teeth. “Later. When you’re safe.”
The door to the room explodes inward, and three men in tactical gear sweep into the room. Konstantin comes in behind them, as a rattle of gunfire takes out the last of the guards in the room.
Konstantin looks at me. “You alright? Both of you?”
“We’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “How many of Russo’s men are left?”
“We took out most of them. Some went out the back.” Konstantin pauses. “Were there other girls besides Sienna?”
I glance at her, and she shakes her head. “I didn’t see any.”
“Alright.” Konstantin glances toward Russo. I see the anger building in his eyes, and I clear my throat.
“I want Sienna out of here. Safe.”
Konstantin looks at me and nods. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. He won’t be able to do anything about it right now, anyway.”
We move through the corridor, Sienna behind me, my weapon at the ready, surrounded by Konstantin’s men as we head for the entrance to the warehouse. The air is thick with the smell of concrete dust and hot metal, blood and gunpowder, and bodies litter the path on our way out—Russo men who thought they could take on the Abramov Bratva and learned too late how wrong they were.
"This way," one of Konstantin's men says, leading us toward an exit.
The night air, briny from the docks, still feels like fucking heaven after being trapped inside that warehouse. Konstantin leads us to aconvoy of black SUVs, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled from combat. He nods to the men to disperse, looking at Sienna and me.
“Thank fuck we got here in time. When you didn’t check in?—”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Konstantin glances at Sienna. “Are you hurt?” he asks again, and she shakes her head, though I know she must be in pain.
“I’m fine,” she whispers. “Just—” she shifts to show the cuffs on her wrists, and Konstantin motions to one of his men, who comes forward with a lockpick to get them loose. The moment they fall off, Sienna rubs her wrists with each hand, relief clear in her face.
“Damian?” He looks at me, and I nod.
“Let’s get home.”
Sienna follows me into one of the SUVs, sitting tense and still next to me. I don’t know what to do or what to say. I want to pull her into my arms, to stroke her hair and whisper promises to her, to tell her how sorry I am. But I have no idea which words should come first, or how to show that much affection.
That’s never been the man that I am. And I don’t know how to break free of years of conditioning to be what it isthatI am.
The mansion feels like a sanctuary when we finally pull through the gates, but I can't shake the tension that's coiled tight in my shoulders. My hands are still steady—they always are after violence—but inside I'm fucking rattled in a way I haven't been since I was a green kid taking orders from Victor Abramov.
It's because of her. Because of what almost happened to Sienna.
I keep replaying the moment when Giovanni's men dragged her into that room, the terror in her eyes before she buried it under determination. The way she dropped to her knees, willing to do whatever she needed to in order to help save us—the way she looked at me when I was inside her, like I was the only thing in her world that mattered. The sound she made when she took me inside of her for the first time.
Christ.Even now, even after everything, my body responds to the memory. I'm half-hard just thinking about how she felt around me.
I need to get my head straight. Need to focus on making sure she's safe, that Adam is safe, on what happens next to put this Russo threat to bed once and for all. But my mind is full ofher, of what she makes me feel, and how to make right what happened in that warehouse. What I had to do—what we both had to do.
We need to talk about it, and talking has never been my strong point. It’s never been something that I know how to do.
When the SUVs pull up in front of the mansion, I hustle Sienna inside as quickly as I can. I need her safe, behind walls that can protect her, away from anyone who might want to harm her.
“Damian?” Her voice pulls me out of my frantic, runaway train of thought, back to the present. She’s looking up at me with concern, concern forme, and it brings me up short. “Are you okay?”
"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically. I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. But I don't know how to explain that to her without sounding weak.
"I need to see Adam," she says, and I can hear the ache in her voice. The need to hold her son and make sure he's really okay.
