I looked down at him—six years old, stubborn as hell, too perceptive for his own good.
He was already learning the shape of my world, the rules I lived by. And here he was, standing between pragmatism and something dangerously close to mercy.
I rubbed a hand over my jaw and glanced back at the building. Still no movement. No men spilling out in apology or outrage.
Either they were stalling, or they genuinely had no idea who the woman was—or how she’d ended up in my car.
If she was theirs, keeping her alive gave me leverage. Information. A name. A reason someone had abandoned her instead of finishing the job. If she wasn’t theirs...
Then someone else had access to my vehicle.
That was unacceptable.
And Vanya was still watching me, eyes locked on my face, waiting.
He wouldn’t forget what I chose next.
“Fine,” I muttered at last. “Get in.”
His relief was immediate, bright and dangerous.
He nodded quickly and ran for the passenger side without another word.
I turned back to the rear door and opened it again.
The woman hadn’t moved. Her breathing was still shallow, uneven. Up close, she looked worse—skin too pale, lips tinged faintly blue, lashes fluttering as if she were fighting the dark with everything she had left.
I leaned in, voice low but firm. “Listen to me. You’re safe. Do you understand?”
No response.
I slid an arm beneath her shoulders, careful of the wound, and lifted her just enough to reposition her properly on the seat. She let out a faint sound—pain, fear, instinct—and my grip tightened automatically, protective despite myself.
Whoever had done this to her hadn’t expected her to survive.
That was their first mistake.
I shut the door, circled the car, and got behind the wheel.
Whatever lay bleeding in my backseat was no longer a problem I could set down and walk away from.
Vanya sat rigid afterward, shoulders drawn up, as if bracing for impact.
I turned the key.
The V8 roared to life, smooth and powerful, its familiar growl usually a comfort.
Tonight, it did nothing to steady me.
As soon as the cabin sealed shut, the smell hit—thick, metallic, invasive. Copper and sweat and something sour beneath it, something that spoke of fear and infection and wounds left too long untreated. Blood. Enough of it to soak into leather, to linger no matter how expensive the car.
I cracked the windows halfway down, cold night air rushing in, but it barely cut through the stench. It clung to the back of my throat, crawled under my skin.
Vanya twisted in his seat again, stretching his neck to look past the headrest.
His voice came out small. “Is she going to make it?”
I didn’t soften the truth. He deserved better than lies. “I don’t know,” I said. “She’s lost a lot of blood. If she dies before we reach Como, there’s nothing we can do.”