Page 51 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

ANGELO

I watch her check the Glock's magazine for the third time, counting rounds that haven't magically disappeared since she last looked.

Her movements are automatic, muscle memory from years of training I wish she'd never endured.

The safe house feels too small, the walls pressing in with each tick of the clock on the kitchen wall.

She slides the magazine home with a decisive click, then checks the safety. Again.

"You've got them memorised," she says without looking up, but I catch the slight tremor in her voice. She's talking about the blueprints I've been staring at for the past hour, though we both know I could draw Jerzy's compound blindfolded by now.

"Old habits." I fold the papers, tucking them inside my jacket. My own weapons are already secured—two Berettas, a knife in my boot, another at my hip. Tools of a trade I never wanted her to share.

The night air hits us as we step outside. October in Chicago bites with sharp teeth, and she shivers despite the tactical gear. I want to pull her against me, share my warmth, but there's a distance to her now. The Red Widow emerging like a ghost from wherever she's buried her.

My SUV sits in the shadows, black paint swallowing what little light the moon offers. I open her door first, always the passenger side, keeping her on my right where I can shield her if needed.

We pull away from the kerb in silence. The engine purrs beneath us, a familiar rumble that usually calms my nerves. Not tonight. Tonight every shadow could hide one of Jerzy's men. Every passing car could carry death.

Her hand finds mine between the seats. Such a simple gesture, but it grounds me, reminds me why we're doing this. Her other hand grips her gun, and I notice she's removed the safety. Ready. Always ready now that her memories have returned.

My own weapon rests heavy against my thigh, positioned for a quick draw. The weight of it is almost comforting. I've carried death for so long it's become part of me, but seeing her embrace that same darkness makes my chest tight.

Chicago's skyline glitters against the dark sky like broken glass. The city spreads before us, all sharp edges and hidden dangers. Did she spend her childhood in these streets, learned to read their moods and navigate their threats? Do they feel foreign tonight, hostile?

"Do you recognise it?" I ask, watching her profile as she stares out the window. The city lights catch in her eyes, turning them into mirrors.

"Yes," she says quietly. "I remember it all now."

Something in her voice makes my grip tighten on the wheel. Not fear exactly, but a hollow acceptance that's worse. She remembers every kill, every mission, every order Jerzy gave her in this city. The weight of those memories sits between us like a third passenger.

She turns to study my face, and I wonder what she sees there. Fear? Determination? The desperate need to keep her safe?

I probably look like a man preparing to wage war against impossible odds. Because that's exactly what I am. Jerzy has an army. We have each other and the element of surprise. I should have at least brought my brothers with me. But no. This is not their war.

Jerzy will die tonight, or I will. There's no middle ground when it comes to protecting what's mine.

Jerzy's estate rises from the darkness like a monument to paranoia. High walls topped with razor wire, security cameras sweeping in predictable arcs, guards positioned at intervals that speak of military precision. The old bastard built himself a fortress.

Kasia's fingers tighten around mine as we study it from the shadows. Her breathing is controlled, measured. The Red Widow preparing for the hunt.

I ease the SUV into position beneath a cluster of oak trees, their branches creating deeper shadows that swallow us whole. The engine dies with a soft tick of cooling metal. In the sudden quiet, I can hear her heartbeat—or maybe it's mine.

She checks her watch, the luminous hands glowing faintly in the darkness. "Fifteen minutes," she says, her voice steady. Professional. Then she turns to me, and for a heartbeat, the mask slips.

Her lips find mine in a kiss that tastes of desperation and promises. Salt and gunpowder. Life and death. When she pulls back, her eyes hold mine for a moment that stretches into infinity.

"Fifteen minutes," she whispers against my mouth, and then she's gone.

I watch her melt into the darkness, moving along paths invisible to anyone who hadn't grown up here. She becomes one with the shadows, a wraith slipping between pools of blackness. Within seconds, I can't track her movement anymore, and the loss of visual contact makes my chest tight.

My hand finds my Beretta, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip. The metal is cold against my palm, a sharp contrast to the heat still lingering from her kiss.

One minute.

She'll be at the outer wall now, using the blind spot she identified between cameras three and four. There's a drainage grate there, old and forgotten, just wide enough for someone her size to slip through.

Two minutes.

My jaw clenches as I imagine her crawling through that narrow space, vulnerable and alone. What if they've welded it shut? What if there's a sensor we missed?

Three minutes.

I force myself to breathe slowly, evenly. She knows what she's doing. She's done this before, countless times. The Red Widow doesn't make mistakes.

Four minutes.

But she's not just the Red Widow anymore. She's my Butterfly, and that terrifies me more than any assassin's reputation. Love makes you vulnerable. Makes you hesitate. Makes you human when you need to be a weapon.

Five minutes.

The guard at the east gate shifts his weight, bored and complacent. He has no idea death is stalking through his employer's halls. No idea that in ten minutes, his shift will end permanently.

Six minutes.

She should be inside the main building now, navigating corridors she knows by heart. How many times did she walk those halls as a child? How many times did Jerzy drag her through them, bloodied from training?

Seven minutes.

My teeth grind together. This waiting is torture. Every instinct screams at me to move, to follow, to protect. But I hold position, trusting her skill even as my imagination conjures a thousand ways this could go wrong.

Eight minutes.

A light flickers in an upper window. My breath catches, but then it steadies again. Could be anything. A guard making rounds. A staff member working late. Or Kasia, already hunting.

Nine minutes.

I check my weapons one final time. Both Berettas loaded, chambered, safeties off. Knife sharp enough to shave with. The small explosive charges Arrow provided tucked safely in my jacket. Everything I need to wage war.

Ten minutes.

My muscles coil with barely contained energy. Five more minutes. Just five more fucking minutes before I can move. Before I can do something other than sit here like a caged animal while she faces God knows what alone.

Eleven minutes.

What if she's walked into a trap? What if Jerzy knew we were coming? The paranoid fuck has eyes everywhere, tentacles reaching into every shadow of the underworld. One whisper, one glimpse of us in the city, and he could have—

Twelve minutes.

Stop. I force the thoughts down, lock them away with all the other fears that serve no purpose. Doubt is death in our world. She's fine. She's hunting. She's doing what she was born to do.

Thirteen minutes.

The guard rotation should begin soon. Three guards will move to new positions, creating a thirty-second gap in coverage near the servant's entrance. Kasia memorised every detail, every pattern. She'll use it.

A bead of sweat trickles down my spine despite the cool night air.

Fourteen minutes.

Almost time. My hand moves to the door handle, every muscle ready to spring into action. The guard at the gate yawns, checking his watch. He's counting down too, eager for his shift to end.

He has no idea this one will be his last.

Movement catches my eye. Not at the gate, but in my peripheral vision. My heart stops for a moment before I recognise the pattern. Three quick flashes from a penlight in an upper window. Kasia's signal. She's in position.

Fourteen minutes and thirty seconds.

The guard stretches, rolls his shoulders. His replacement should arrive any moment. When the rotation begins, I'll have that thirty-second window to eliminate him and breach the gate.

Fourteen minutes and forty-five seconds.

There—approaching footsteps from inside the compound. The relief guard, right on schedule.

Fifteen minutes.

The door opens quietly. I'm out and moving before the guard can finish his yawn, my footsteps silent on the frost-kissed grass. He starts to turn, perhaps sensing death approaching, but he's far too slow.

The suppressed Beretta coughs once. A wet thud as he drops, dead before his body hits the ground. The relief guard is still inside, probably bullshitting in the guard room, buying me precious seconds.

I drag the body into the shadows, then slip through the gate. The compound sprawls before me, a maze of buildings and courtyards I've memorised from blueprints but never seen in person.

The path Kasia took is barely visible. A ghost trail through overgrown hedges and forgotten corners. She knew shortcuts the architects never drew, passages carved by a child trying to escape notice.

I press against cold stone walls, every sense straining. Somewhere in this labyrinth, she's hunting the man who destroyed her childhood. Or he's hunting her.

The thought spurs me forward, deeper into the beast's lair.

A door hangs slightly ajar, old servants' quarters, according to the plans. The hinges are well-oiled, silent as I ease through. The corridor beyond is narrow, meant for staff to move unseen. Perfect.

My footsteps are barely audible against worn carpet as I navigate by instinct. Left at the first junction, straight through the old kitchen, up the back stairs that once carried breakfast trays and dirty linens.

With each step deeper into the compound, the walls seem to press closer. This place reeks of old violence, of secrets soaked into the very stones. How many times did Kasia walk these halls with blood on her hands? How many times did she return from missions to face Jerzy's cold evaluation?

A sound freezes me. Footsteps above, heavy and purposeful. Guards, from the rhythm. Two of them, maybe three. I press into an alcove as they pass overhead, their boots thundering like a distant storm.

When silence returns, I continue upward. She'll go to Jerzy's office first, then to his private chambers if he's not there. The office holds his records, his secrets. She wants answers as much as she wants blood.

Another sound stops me, not footsteps this time, but something worse. A woman's cry, sharp and sudden, cutting through the walls like a blade.

Every instinct roars to life. Fuck stealth, fuck the plan. I'm moving before rational thought can stop me, taking stairs three at a time, following that sound like a lifeline.

The cry doesn't repeat, but I know which direction it came from. The east wing, where Jerzy keeps his private suite. Where he trained her. Where he broke her.

Where I'll fucking end him if he's touched her.

I round a corner too fast, nearly colliding with a guard. He's young, green, his eyes widening in the split second before I strike. My knife opens his throat in a spray of crimson, and I'm past him before his body hits the floor.

No time for subtlety now. She needs me.

The hallway stretches ahead, doors on either side like teeth in a monster's maw. Behind one of them is Kasia. Behind one of them are answers.

Behind one of them is blood.