Page 145 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Mira

The elevator descends into the depths of NFS headquarters, each floor counting down like seconds before execution. B3... B4... B5. The mechanical hum fills the space between us, but Vanessa's voice still echoes from upstairs.

"You could have died!"

Asher's calm response follows us down. "Takes more than that, little bunny."

Two days since Baltimore. Two days since we dragged Alexei Petrov back here in chains. Two days of Damian working him over in ways that would make normal people vomit.

But not us. We're not normal people.

Jax's hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady through tactical fabric. The bruises from Thursday's warehouse fight still ache across my ribs, but his touch grounds me in ways I'm still learning to accept. Four days of recovery. Four days of having people who actually give a shit whether I live or die.

Seven years alone, and now Vanessa checks my wounds like they matter. Like I matter.

"Two days we've had him. Two days of Damian's special attention."

My voice echoes off concrete walls as the elevator shudders to a stop. The B5 doors slide open revealing harsh fluorescent lighting and the antiseptic smell of controlled violence.

This is our domain. Our rules. No federal oversight, no cameras that matter, no one watching except us.

I check my Glock automatically, feeling the familiar weight against my hip. The safety clicks off with that soft metallic whisper that makes Jax's breathing change behind me. His pupils dilate as I holster the weapon, and I catch the subtle shift in his posture. Even now, heading toward the man who destroyed my childhood, Jax can't hide his physical response to my lethal efficiency.

He's hard just from watching me check my weapon. Fuck, that shouldn't make me wet, but it does.

"Whatever you choose, I'm here."

The words carry thirteen years of understanding. He won't try to talk me out of revenge. Won't push me toward mercy. He'll just exist in whatever space I need him to fill.

"I know. That's why I can choose."

Because for the first time, someone wants me exactly as I am. Killer, survivor, broken thing trying to become human again.

We walk down the narrow hallway, our boots echoing against polished concrete. Damian emerges from the observation room, rolling his shoulders like he's been working out tension for hours.

"He's ready for you."

Blood stains his knuckles, but his expression remains neutral. Two days of systematic pressure. Breaking down Alexei's resistance piece by piece, not for enjoyment but for results.

Damian's good at what he does. No judgment, just efficiency.

"Holden arranged transport tomorrow," Jax says, matching my pace as we approach the interrogation room door. His fingers already starting that nervous drumming against his thigh. "Found some ambitious junior analyst—Johnson, ex-military, someone he trusts. Kid gets to claim he tracked Petrov through financial records, gets his promotion."

"And Johnson keeps his mouth shut?"

"Holden says the kid owes him from Kabul. Plus ambitious people know when to stay quiet about how they really caught their big fish."

Everything we do exists in shadows, even our victories.

Through the one-way glass, I see him. Alexei Petrov sits handcuffed to a metal chair, his expensive suit torn and bloodied. The distinguished silver-haired monster from my nightmares reduced to meat and bruises.

Thirteen years of nightmares sitting right there. Helpless.

Jax's hand slides down my arm, fingers intertwining with mine. The contact sends heat through my chest, mixing with the cold calculation I've carried for seven years.

"Time to face him."

The door handle turns under my palm, heavy and final as a gunshot.