Page 39

T he SUV jerks to a stop, the momentum throwing me forward so hard my seatbelt cuts into my collarbone. My breath hitches, heart hammering against my ribs as Andrea gasps beside me.

Something is wrong.

The silence outside is heavy. Too heavy. Like the city itself is holding its breath.

Then the doors explode open.

Shouts erupt, loud, angry, merciless.

“Get the fuck out!”

“Hands on your heads!”

“Move, NOW!”

The sharp snap of weapons being raised sends terror surging through me, but there’s no time to process it.

A hand grips my arm, yanking me so hard my shoulder wrenches painfully. My hands are still bound behind me, my balance off, the cold pavement beneath my feet slick from the week’s worth of rain.

I stumble, trying to catch myself, but another shove from behind sends me careening forward.

The factory looms ahead—rotting, abandoned, reeking of decay.

The windows are jagged, broken, gaping like empty eye sockets in the darkness. The air smells like mildew, rust, and old death.

I try to breathe through my fear, to keep my mind clear.

Sammy is coming.

He will come for me.

I just have to hold on.

My gaze snaps to Santos, but he doesn’t look at me.

He’s on the phone, his grin stretching wide, his teeth flashing like a predator catching the scent of blood.

H is voice is low, lethal, dripping with the kind of pleasure that makes my stomach turn.

This isn’t about money.

This is personal.

At least, I think it is, but there’s only one way to be sure.

“Why are you doing this?” I demand, my voice shaking but strong.

The man closest to me growls.

And then his fist crashes into my face.

Pain explodes, white-hot, splitting through my skull.

The world tilts, my vision bursting into black and red stars.

I barely feel my knees hit the pavement.

But I hear Andrea’s scream. “You fuck! Don’t you dare hit her!”

Another scuffle. A cry of pain. I don’t know if it’s her or me.

The voices are blurring, the pounding in my head too loud.

A different voice cuts through the chaos. Santos.

“Stick to the fucking plan. Don’t touch the prisoners unless I give the order!” he snarls, his voice filled with annoyance, not concern.

That last bit is important because if I thought he cared at all for my well-being I might be able to reason with him.

But I can see he doesn’t care. Not one fucking bit.

I’m yanked up before I can get my bearings, my feet dragged over the pavement like I’m nothing but dead weight.

“Stop,” I gasp, struggling. “Let me—just let me find my feet!”

They don’t.

They don’t care either.

The heavy factory doors groan as they’re wrenched open, darkness swallowing us whole.

And then I see Andrea.

Blood smears her face.

It drips from her nose, coating her lips, staining her chin.

Jesus. Fuck.

“Oh, God.” Her voice shakes, full of tears. “Aella, are you okay?”

I know I must look worse than she does.

But I can’t let her see my fear.

I straighten. My spine locks.

And I give her the truth.

“Don’t be sorry, Andrea. And don’t cry. Sammy is coming.”

Santos laughs.

The sound twists through the air, ugly and taunting.

“You think your fucking Captain America husband is gonna save your fat ass?”

His words are meant to humiliate me.

He thinks he knows Sammy, but he doesn’t know.

He can’t possibly understand who and what Sammy Ramriez is.

Santos has no idea who I belong to.

Or what’s coming for him.

“Oh, princess. Don’t you see?” he leans in, his breath hot and foul against my cheek.

“I already won.”

I don’t flinch.

Even when his cold, calculating gaze roves over me, inspecting me like I’m some kind of fucking puzzle.

I hate being under his scrutiny.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, a slow smirk twisting his lips. “What does he even see in you? years we fought side by side and he never once went home with a broad. Never paid for a sex worker like the rest of us. I thought he was a fucking monk. Then he comes back from Vegas with you .”

His voice drips with mockery, with disgust.

“I read your file.”

His hand grasps my chin, tilting my face up.

“You’re cute.”

His fingers dig in.

“But nothing special. Too thick for my tastes.”

My stomach twists.

He leans in. His grin widens.

“Maybe that’s it. Maybe I just haven’t had a taste yet.”

And then he lunges.

His mouth crushes against mine, rough and violent.

I scream, thrashing, but he only tightens his grip.

He thinks I’m weak.

But I’m not.

I bite down on his lip. Hard.

The taste of copper floods my mouth.

Santos howls. But he releases me.

Blood dribbles down his chin.

And I spit the remainder in my mouth onto the floor.

He rears back, eyes wide with rage.

“You fucking bitch!”

The slap comes fast, hard.

My head whips to the side, skin blazing.

But I laugh.

I make sure he hears it.

Because I can see it in his eyes.

He’s unraveling.

His nostrils flare. His hand tightens on his gun.

He lifts it.

Presses it to my forehead.

The barrel is cold, like the promise of death.

But I don’t flinch.

I don’t blink.

I stare him down.

“Go ahead.” My voice is calm, eerie.

“You want to shoot me? Then do it.”

Santos laughs.

“You’re brave for a dumb bitch, aren’t you?” he sneers.

“Brave? Me?” I tilt my head. “No, I’m not brave.”

I let my lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“But maybe I know something you don’t.”

His eyes narrow.

“You don’t know shit.”

I lean forward.

“I know my husband.”

Santos growls, his grip on the gun tightening.

“You don’t know nothing about good ol’ Sam that I don’t know. I fucking lived with him. Bled with him. For years.”

I listen.

And I hear what this is really about.

“Then we come home and this motherfucker springs it on me he’s rich as the fucking Pope? He coulda got us home any fucking time! But he didn’t.”

His breathing is ragged, uneven.

“He let half of us die. Marcel. Gabe. Cruz. All dead!”

Santos is shaking now, his fury a living, breathing thing.

“Now he’s going to pay.”

My heart thuds.

I see Andrea, her face frozen in horror.

I hear the hesitation in his men’s voices. They’re in it for the money. They don’t want to kill us. They just want a pay day.

“Shut the fuck up! You will get your money when I say!” he roars.

“Santos, Sammy didn’t kill your friends. He is one of you,” I try.

“NO!”

The sound rips from his throat, raw and broken.

His gun trembles.

And then— Bang!

One of his own men crumples.

A second of stunned silence.

Santos turns back to me.

Sweat is forming on my brow, but I can’t wipe it because my hands are tied.

The taste of fear is bitter in the back of my throat as Santos faces me.

A slow, terrifying smile splits his face.

“Now.”

He presses the gun back to my forehead.

“Let’s see how much your husband bleeds when he loses you.”

And in that moment, I know the meaning of real fear. Because I might not survive this.

My heart constricts. Sammy is going to tear this world apart when news reaches him.

Santos won’t survive this.

Hell, no one will.

Because when my husband avenges me, there will be nothing left but blood and fire.