Page 16

FIFTEEN

MAXIM

F orgoing the idea of chasing after her, I redirect my focus to the bastard who dared mess with what’s mine. Sophia will be fine. She has five of my best men shadowing her every move. She needs space after our disagreement, and I can’t risk making her feel suffocated.

My phone buzzes with a notification. Sophia is receiving a call.

Before I returned her phone, I installed an app that alerts me to her activity. A text, a call—I see it all. This one’s from Bobby, her therapist friend.

I did a deep dive into him the moment she asked him to call her. At first, it infuriated me that she’d turn to someone else instead of me. But when I saw his qualifications and their long history since college, I grudgingly admitted it might help. As much as it irks me, all that matters is her healing.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll sit idle.

I push open the door to the private room the manager generously offered me, my gaze landing on the pathetic excuse for a man tied to a chair in the center. He’s perched on a plastic sheet, his panicked eyes widening as I step in. At the sight of me, he lurches, the chair tipping and sending him crashing sideways.

Pathetic.

I step closer, the sound of my boots scraping over the plastic filling the silence. Grabbing the chair, I pull it upright with a jerk. He flinches at my touch, trembling as his desperate gaze darts around the room, searching for salvation.

“No one’s coming to save you,” I say, my voice low, steady. I crouch to meet his eyes. “You’re all mine now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us.”

I grab his face, my thumb and forefinger digging into his cheeks. “Do you know why you’re here?”

His muffled cries through the duct tape covering his mouth are unintelligible, his head shaking wildly.

“You fucked with the wrong woman,” I growl, leaning in closer. “You thought you could mess with her and walk away? You thought that just because you’ve got a dick swinging between your legs, you had the right to touch her?”

I straighten, lifting my boot and pressing it between his legs. His muffled screams reach a higher pitch as I press harder, a sadistic smile creeping onto my face.

“Let me teach you a lesson about touching what doesn’t belong to you,” I hiss, my voice dripping venom.

I extend my hand, palm up, and within moments, one of my men places my favorite weapon into it: a gleaming butcher’s knife. Slowly, I trace my thumb along the blade, letting the anticipation hang thick in the air. Then, without warning, I strike him across the side of the head with the handle, his muffled cries growing weaker as he slumps.

Gripping his throat, I lean close, savoring the thrill that courses through me. There’s a primal satisfaction in holding someone’s life in my hands, knowing I alone decide when it ends. The power, the control—it’s intoxicating.

“You can beg all you want,” I murmur, tightening my grip on his throat, “but this only ends one way.”

I slide the blade down his cheek, a thin trail of blood blooming in its wake. The sight stirs something feral inside me. More.

“Was it this hand?” I ask softly, resting the knife against his wrist. He jerks, cutting himself on the blade, and the sight of the crimson stain drives me into a frenzy.

I bring the knife down hard, severing his hand with a single stroke. It hits the plastic with a dull thud, blood pooling around it like an abstract work of art. His muffled screams reverberate through the room, tears streaming down his face in torrents. The stench of urine hits my nose, and I grin.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. What’s mine.”

I don’t give him a moment to recover before moving to his other side. “Or was it this hand?” The blade comes down again, severing the second hand. His cries pierce the air, desperate and unrelenting, the plastic beneath him soaked with blood and piss.

A voice cuts through my haze. “Sir, she’s on the move.”

I blink, the high of violence receding as I straighten. My gaze lingers on the pitiful shell of a man before me. He’s broken but not finished.

“Clean this up,” I say coldly, handing the blade to one of my men. “Make sure there’s nothing left of him.”

Without a backward glance, I leave the room, shaking off the bloodlust. If Andrei was here, he’d disapprove, lecturing me on my extremes. I can almost hear him now, his calm, measured voice urging me to pull back. He’d be right, but the rage inside me isn’t something I can contain. It demands to be fed, and if I don’t indulge it, it’ll consume me whole.

When I find Sophia, she’s standing by the window, her silhouette framed against the soft glow of the evening sky. She’s lost in thought, her beauty striking, almost ethereal. My heart tightens, the darkness inside me momentarily silenced.

She’s the light in my world of shadows, the only thing that keeps me from slipping too far. I’d do anything for her— anything .

We sit, and the waiter arrives promptly to take our order. I dismiss him quickly, not wanting any interruptions. Sophia gazes out at the sky, her thoughts seemingly a million miles away. I study her, the rawness of her presence grounding me.

In her, I find my salvation and my damnation.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask, spreading some butter on a piece of bread and handing it to her.

She takes it from me, staring at it as if it holds the answers to the universe. After a long pause, she looks up, her eyes heavy. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, fiddling with the bread in her hands.

A scowl pulls at my face. I hate it when she apologizes. She doesn’t owe me anything, least of all an apology. “We’ve talked about this, Sophia,” I say, my frustration seeping through despite my attempt to keep my voice even. “You don’t need to keep saying sorry to me.”

“I’m sorry for how I treated you back at Luca’s house,” she adds, her voice quieter now, her lips trembling into a frown. She opens her mouth as if to say more, but before she can, the door opens, and the waiter enters with our drinks and appetizers. The moment hangs in the air, neither of us speaking until he leaves.

“Please, don’t be sorry,” I plead, my tone softer now. I don’t deserve her kindness, but I’ll take it, every last bit. “I deserved the way you treated me. Hell, I don’t even deserve how nice you’re being right now.”

She sets the bread down and then takes a sip of her water. “I talked to a therapist today,” she says, avoiding my gaze, her eyes skimming over the decor as if it holds something more important than me. She doesn’t need to be embarrassed. She’s taking steps, and that’s all that matters.

I reach across the table, my hand finding hers, offering a gentle squeeze. “Good. That’s a good step.”

“That’s what he said,” she murmurs, offering me a faint smile.

“When’s your first appointment?” I ask, trying to distract myself with another sip of water to wash away the bitter taste of the whiskey. If she wasn’t here, I’d be calling the manager to demand something drinkable instead of this crap.

“I don’t have one yet. His assistant will call me tomorrow to set it up.”

“Don’t hesitate. Schedule it as soon as you can,” I tell her. “If we need to leave earlier, we will.” She nods then asks if we can change the subject. I comply without hesitation, and we continue our dinner mostly in silence, only small talk breaking the stillness. She spends most of the time staring out the window, lost in thought. It’s not the evening I had envisioned, but I remind myself to be patient. One step at a time. So much has happened in the last few days, the last few months, even, and I can’t expect her to just snap back to how things were, not like this.

As we walk back to our room, she tells me, almost in a whisper, that when she feels ready, she wants to know who took her. Her voice trembles, but her eyes hold a quiet determination that twists something deep inside me. I stay silent, my throat tightening as shame and frustration churn in my chest. I can’t bring myself to tell her the truth—that I don’t know who’s responsible, and I’m no closer to an answer than I was when this all started.

The frustration gnaws at me, relentless and consuming. Earlier today, Luca called with another dead end. The location where Sophia was held—our one tangible lead—was professionally cleaned, leaving behind no traces, no clues. It was as if whoever did this vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but a void for me to chase.

The weight of that call is still crushing me, and now, hearing her speak of wanting answers, I feel like I’m failing her all over again. She deserves to know. She deserves justice. But what do I tell her when I have nothing? The helplessness is suffocating.

That person could be planning something right now, and I’d be powerless to stop it. My grip on her hand tightens involuntarily, and she glances up at me, her brow furrowed in concern. I force myself to relax, to offer her a reassuring squeeze, but inside, I’m unraveling. I’ve sworn to protect her, yet with every passing day, the distance between me and the truth feels insurmountable.

All I can do is keep up the precautions—extra security for my business, my home, for Sophia and me. But it doesn’t feel like enough. It never feels like enough.

After we reach the room, it doesn’t take long for Sophia to fall asleep. Her breathing evens out, and the faint rise and fall of her chest should bring me some comfort, but it doesn’t, not when my head is a storm of dead ends and unanswered questions.

Needing some air, I step outside, letting the cool breeze brush against my face. I pause, staring up at the night sky, its vastness only amplifying the emptiness I feel. A silent plea rises within me, desperate and raw. Just give me something. Anything. A clue. A sign. Point me in the right direction. The man who asked Sophia for the luggage was who he said he was. A bellhop. I checked the information I requested from my IT guy earlier, and there was nothing suspicious from the footage he sent me, nothing in the man’s background check.

Luca and I have been chasing shadows. His men hauled off the bodies we found, combing through every detail, but nothing connects. No gang ties. No organization. Just a group of nobodies—random people with no discernible link. It doesn’t make sense. Every lead we follow collapses like a house of cards, leaving us right back where we started. Every piece of information feels deliberately scrubbed, leaving nothing but questions in its wake.

Sophia’s soft whimpering from inside the room pulls me out of my thoughts. I glance at the sky one last time, releasing a shaky breath. Whoever you are, I will find you. I don’t care how long it takes.

I step back into the room, the faint light casting shadows across the walls. Sophia is tangled in the sheets, her brow furrowed, caught in the throes of a nightmare. My chest tightens as I move to her side, gently pulling her into my arms. Her body is tense, trembling slightly, but as I hold her closer, her breathing steadies, and the tension in her frame melts away.

She’s safe now. At least for the moment, she’s safe.

I stay there, cradling her, my chin resting lightly on her head. The weight of exhaustion finally drags me under, and with Sophia in my arms, I allow myself to drift into the deep, restless sleep I’ve been chasing for days.