One hour. The coordinates burned in Chapter 22: The Reckoning mind, a pinpoint in the labyrinth of rotting piers and rusted shipping containers. The digital voice hadn't identified itself, but the chess move was clear: trade Finch for Ava. A simple exchange. But in my world, simple exchanges were where you died.
I didn't take the bait. Not directly.
"Viktor," I snarled into my comm as I raced back to the Ducati, my mind a kaleidoscope of fractured plans. "Finch stays hidden. Prep the decoy data—something convincing enough to buy time. And get me every thermal satellite pass, every traffic cam feed, every snitch's whisper within a mile of those coordinates for the last two hours. They didn't teleport her there."
"On it, Don Rossi. Your injuries—"
I glanced down. I'd taken a graze to the arm during the data center fight, and a bruise was flowering on my ribs from a stray impact. The wounds were irrelevant. A dull, throbbing static. "Find her."
The next forty-five minutes were the longest of my life. I stood in the command center below the opera house, watching feeds flash across screens, a statue of seething rage and terror. My rose scent was a violent, storm-charged thing that made the techs flinch.
Then, a break. A snitch who ran errands on the docks reported a black, unmarked van arriving at Warehouse 47B, two piers down from the coordinates. Not the exchange point. A holding location.
They were smarter than I'd hoped. They'd do the swap from a distance, watching the meet point, ready to vanish or kill her if it was a trap.
Warehouse 47B. That was all I needed.
I went in alone. Not out of bravery, but out of a singular, ferocious need. This was between me and whoever had dared to touch what was mine. Bringing an army would get her killed. A scalpel, not a sledgehammer.
The warehouse was a cathedral of decay, smelling of salt, mildew, and oil. High, broken windows let in slants of murky moonlight. I moved silently, a shadow among deeper shadows, my senses stretched to their limit, searching for the scent of peaches, of her fear.
I heard them first. Muffled voices. Two, maybe three. Then a soft, pained gasp that lanced through my heart like a white-hot needle.
Ava.
I peered around a stack of moldering pallets. They had her tied to a steel support beam. Three men. Professionals. One was on a laptop, likely monitoring the exchange point. Another stood guard. The third, a hulking Alpha with a cruel twist to his mouth, was standing too close to her, his hand gripping her chin, forcing her head up.
"Your fancy girlfriend is taking her time," he sneered. "Maybe we should send another incentive."
Ava's face was pale, a bruise forming on her cheekbone, but her eyes blazed with a fury that had no fear in it. She spat at him.
He backhanded her. The sound cracked through the warehouse.
Something in me snapped. The careful plan, the strategy, the control—it vaporized. A red, roaring tide consumed me. I didn't think. I moved.
The guard by the pallets died first. I snapped his neck with a twist so violent the pop echoed. The man on the laptop looked up, fumbling for a weapon. I was already on him, driving my knife up under his ribs, into his heart. He slumped silently.
The big Alpha, the one who had hit her, whirled, pulling a gun.
"You," he breathed, seeing the monster in my eyes.
I didn't give him the chance to aim. I charged. A bullet whined past my ear. I slammed into him, the impact driving us both into a stack of metal drums. We went down in a tangle of limbs. He was stronger, heavier, fueled by Alpha rage. He got on top of me, his hands going for my throat.
"I'm going to kill you in front of her!" he roared.
I couldn't breathe. Spots danced in my vision. I could see Ava struggling against her bonds, screaming my name, the sound muffled by the blood roaring in my ears.
No. Not like this. Not in front of her.
With a final, desperate surge, I bucked, throwing him off balance. My hand found the knife still lodged in the dead tech's chest. I yanked it free and drove it into the side of the Alpha's neck.
He choked, his eyes wide with shock. I shoved him off, scrambling to my feet, gasping for air. I was a mess—blood from my arm, my side screaming, my face cut from broken glass on the floor. But I was standing.
I ran to Ava, cutting her bonds with trembling hands. She collapsed into my arms, sobbing my name, her hands clutching at my torn and bloody clothes.
"I've got you, solnyshko, I've got you," I chanted, holding her, checking her over. The bruise on her face was the only visible injury. The relief was so profound it made me dizzy.
Then, the world exploded with sound. Sirens. Shouting. The warehouse doors crashed open, blinding flashlights cutting through the gloom.
"POLICE! FREEZE! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"
They swarmed in, a flood of tactical gear and shouted commands. We were trapped in the cone of light, surrounded by the dead, covered in blood.
I pushed Ava behind me, shielding her with my body, my hands raised slowly. My mind, sluggish from the fight and the adrenaline crash, tried to compute. The police. Here. Now. It was too neat.
Then I saw him, walking through the cordon of officers in a crisp suit, a look of smug triumph on his weaselly face.
Alistair Finch. He wasn't in our custody. He was with the police.
He'd played us all. The kidnapping wasn't from a rival or Abandonato. It was his contingency plan. When he realized he was being hunted, he went to the authorities, cut a deal, offered up a bigger fish: me. He'd used his own kidnapping as bait to lure me into a murder scene, with police as his witnesses.
"That's her!" Finch squeaked, pointing a dramatic finger. "Ling Rossi! She kidnapped me! She killed these men! She's a maniac!"
Ava stiffened behind me. "He's lying! He set this up!"
An older detective stepped forward, his eyes hard. "Miss, step away from her. You're safe now."
"No," Ava said, her voice cracking but firm. She didn't step away. She stepped forward, right beside me, her hand finding mine, lacing our bloody fingers together. "You don't understand. He's the criminal. We have evidence—"
"You can give your statement at the precinct," the detective said, his tone leaving no room for argument. His eyes were on me. "Ling Rossi, you are under arrest for kidnapping, attempted murder, and the murder of these three individuals. You have the right to remain silent…"
The words washed over me. The cuffs were cold and heavy on my wrists. They pulled me away. I fought the instinct to resist, to break free and slaughter every one of them. But Ava was there, her eyes locked on mine, filled with a promise, a plan, a fury that matched my own.
They pulled us apart. As they led me away in cuffs, covered in the blood of the men I'd killed to save her, I looked back. She stood in the chaos of flashing lights, her face bruised but her spine straight, watching them take me.
This wasn't the end. It was a new battlefield. They had taken me in cuffs. But they had left her free. And my Detective, my partner, my love, was now the most dangerous weapon I had left. The fight wasn't over. It had just changed venues.
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