She looked like she’d been dragged through hell and discarded here as an afterthought.
For a split second, instinct overrode reason.
My mind went where it always went first—with enemies, leverage, intent. The Albanians had left a body in my car. A message. A provocation wrapped in blood and humiliation. Something meant to test boundaries, to see how far they could push before consequences followed.
I shut the door again, making sure it latched without a sound. The last thing I needed was Vanya seeing more than he already had.
I stepped away from the vehicle and pulled out my phone, fingers already dialing the number of one of the men I’d justspent three hours negotiating with over wine and thinly veiled threats.
He answered on the second ring.
“Mr. Volkov—”
“Are you fucking with me?” I cut in, voice flat, lethal.
Silence stretched on the line. Not shock—calculation.
“I don’t understand,” he said carefully. “What’s the problem?”
“There’s a woman bleeding out in the backseat of my car,” I said. I kept my tone even, because men like him heard emotion as weakness. “Half-dead. Half-naked. Carved up like an animal. Did you put her there? Because if this is a statement, it’s a very expensive one.”
Another pause. This one longer. When he spoke again, there was something close to genuine confusion threading his words.
“A dead body?” he repeated. “In your car? No, Dmitri. We would never be so... disrespectful. Especially not after tonight.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” I said coldly. “Come get your trash out of my vehicle. Now. Then we’ll discuss whether your men continue breathing Italian air by morning.”
“Dmitri—”
I ended the call.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and turned—only to find Vanya had crept closer again.
He stood on his toes, small hands pressed to the tinted glass of the rear window, his breath fogging a pale oval as he strained to see inside.
“Dad...” he said softly.
“She’s not your concern,” I replied, sharper than I intended. “Step back.”
He didn’t.
“She’s breathing,” he whispered. Not fear in his voice—certainty.
I closed my eyes for a brief second and exhaled through my nose. “I know she’s breathing. Barely. That doesn’t make this your problem.”
He turned to face me, blue eyes—my eyes—wide and earnest in that infuriating, disarming way children have.
The way they look at the world like it can still be fixed if the right person just does the right thing.
“She’s hurt,” he said. “Really hurt.”
“Vanya—”
“She’s suffering,” he pressed, voice cracking just slightly on the last word. “I saw the blood. She didn’t do anything wrong. Even if she belongs to them... no one deserves that. Please.”
Please.
The word landed harder than any threat the Albanians had thrown at me all night.