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I open my contacts and make another call. Alexei answers on the first ring. “Is she safe?”

“Simeon has Cora,” I say, my voice raw. “I’m going hunting. Are you in?”

“I’m already in,” he says without hesitation. “The crew is ready.”

The crew. Alexei, Ivan, Bogdan, and Fyodor. Men who had my back in prison, and I had theirs. Men who don’t put a three-million-dollar price tag on loyalty.

“I’m coming to you,” I tell him. “Fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll have the iron ready.”

I hang up.

Every breath Dragan takes is a transaction, but Alexei and the crew don’t need a price tag to go to war for me.

Mercenaries fight for money. Brothers fight for each other.

In the distance, the faint, wailing sirens of an approaching ambulance cuts through the night air.

Demyan’s head is nodding forward. He looks as deathly pale as Ruslan now.

Red and blue lights flash in the darkness. An ambulance halts next to the car.

“Stay awake, Demyan,” I urge. “Help is here. When I find who did this, I’ll burn them alive.”

Reluctantly, I lift my bloody hands from his chest and swing back into my stolen car. In the rearview mirror, the paramedics swarm both Ruslan and Demyan, and then I turn the corner and the scene vanishes into the night.

My hands are sticky with blood as they grip the steering wheel.

Somewhere out there, Cora is terrified and alone.

I don’t know where Simeon is hiding her yet, but I’m going to tear the city apart to find her, and by dawn every man who touched her will be dead.

31

Cora

Cold concrete presses into my cheek.

The first thing that hits me is the stench of bleach cutting through the metallic taste in my mouth. My eyes flick open, but everything is a blur of bright light. My skull throbs with a sickening rhythm, every heartbeat driving a spike behind my eyes. I try to move my left arm, but a shock wave of agony shoots straight up my shoulder, making me gasp.

I look down through the haze. My cast is cracked, and it bears a muddy boot print.

Troy.

My husband did this to me.

My breath hitches, and I drag cold air into my lungs. I look around the room, at the stainless-steel cabinets, articulated lamps, and the concrete floor sloped down toward drains.

I’m back in Lorenzo Scava’s basement.

The last time I was here, Zevran was with me. He laced his large, warm fingers through mine while Lorenzo set the bone, his thumb stroking my knuckles until it was over. I crave his scent, the dark rumble of his voice, and the safety of his body pressed against mine. My throat tightens, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

“Stop fucking squirming,” a cold, flat voice seethes from the other side of the room.

I push myself up slowly, using my good hand. On one of the stainless-steel examination tables lies a stranger, his shirt torn open, exposing a jagged, bloody hole near his collarbone. Another man sits on a stool nearby, clutching a thick wad of red-soaked towels to his thigh.

He sees me looking, and his eyes narrow in hatred. “You fucking shot us. Simeon is gonna tear your skin off for this.”