The woman looks half-dead.
I purged every soft feeling from my bloodstream years ago. I don’t have the capacity to empathize. I don’t have time to fucking care, not when Rocco Pagano is within my reach.
Fuck all good it does me.What if it was Rina?Some deep, long-smothered part of my brain whispers.What would you want someone to do if it was Rina?
That’s all it takes before I’m jimmying the woman’s handcuffs open with the tip of my blade. She’s unconscious, sagging into me before both wrists are free. Her face is streaked with dirt and dried sweat. Her torso already discolored and tender. Her skin whisper-thin against the protrusion of bones.
An unholy rage builds in my chest. What the fuck did they do to her?
Thanks to my own beating, it’s been weeks since I’ve been able to sneak in and check on her. I started doing it for entirely selfish reasons, thinking she might have intel on other girls Rocco has held captive in the past. The woman is one of theirs, after all. A Pagano by blood. I figured if I could get her to trust me, she’d open up about her uncle’s fucked-up business.
I didn’t know she’d be too weak and dehydrated to talk.
Rocco has been trying to break her. She’s fought back withnothing but sheer willpower. Her determination to survive is formidable, especially given what the future holds for her. This Pagano woman is a stronger fighter than all the men in her family, and I respect her for that.
It’s that reason, I tell myself, that I feel more homicidal than usual as I wrap her battered body in my coat, trying to avoid touching the injuries on her stomach. Her head lolls wildly, her blindfold falling off, her neck useless as I hoist her against my chest.
Blya!I have a choice to make. Get the girl out of here or get my hands on Rocco.
My brain is a fucking quagmire, but my feet are damn decisive. The Pagano woman is a deadweight against my chest, her body temperature dangerously low as I maneuver us through the compound’s eerily empty basement.
I’ll get her out, get her into my car, and come back for my target. The night isn’t a failure yet.
Rem’s attack must be close to over. The lingering gunfire is sporadic, confined to the upper floors. I make it to a rear staircase without encountering anything but a few nameless bodies and some bloody shoe prints. By the time I get us up the steps and out a back door, the woman I’m carrying is incredibly cold. A foreign fear creeps over me as I adjust her weight and fumble for one of her wrists, searching repeatedly for a pulse as I hustle toward the property’s perimeter.
I know from my time with the Paganos exactly where to park a car so no one notices it; how to breach the weakest part of the exterior fence to escape the property.
My Audi is exactly where I left it. It unlocks automatically as I approach the passenger-side door. I move quickly and carefully, sliding the unconscious woman into the seat, keeping the coat wrapped around her. In the dim winter moonlight, her skin looks pale. Ashy. Her lips more blue than pink. I absentlybrush hair from her forehead as I search for a pulse one more time.
The longer it takes the worse my language gets, my mother no doubt turning in her grave as I let the curses fly. “Suka, pizdets, pizdets?—”
I stop short, my entire focus on the patch of skin beneath my fingers. Thankfuck. I’m not imagining it. She has a pulse. It’s weak but detectable. Determined, just like she is. I buckle her into the seat and close the car door.
Now it’s her uncle’s turn.
I start to run back to the compound when an explosion rocks the air. Flames dance across the night sky. Dumbstruck, I watch the Pagano mansion burn. If Rocco is still inside, my best hope for getting intel about Rina’s location is burning with him.
Guilt and rage whip through me faster than the flames chew up oxygen. Somewhere in the far distance, sirens start to wail. I spare the building one final glance, firing off a rapid text to Rem as I slide into the driver’s seat.
What did I say about not praying? ‘Cause I’m praying like hell that his plans for Rocco didn’t include death by fire.
3
ALIK
The Pagano woman is lifeless in my bed. The doctor has taped an IV drip to her arm, providing the hydration, nutrients, and antibiotics she desperately needs.
Dr. Ruiz’s expression is grave as she enumerates the woman’s extensive injuries. Starvation, dehydration, and an infection are at the top of the list.
“There’s the severe bruising to her stomach, obviously. Whoever hit her broke through the skin in some places. I’ve bandaged the deeper cuts. None of her ribs are broken, but she’ll be uncomfortable for a few days. She also has lacerations around both wrists and ankles. Some have healed. Others are infected. I’ve bandaged the ones that needed it, on her wrists. If she’s lucky the worst that will happen is scarring. If she’s not and she doesn’t respond to the antibiotics, then, well…” Dr. Ruiz’s shrug is resigned. She knows all about the monsters that roam this world, knows the damage they inflict. Survival is far from guaranteed.
The patient stays motionless in the bed. She hasn’t opened her eyes once since I cut her free. But despite the doctor’s less-than-confident prognosis, some of the color has returned to theyoung woman’s cheeks. Her lips have lost their hypothermic tinge. The intravenous fluids are helping, as are the painkillers the doctor has given her.
“What about sexual assault?” I force myself to ask.
“No evidence of that,” the older woman says with a firm shake of her head. “With proper rest, hydration, and nutrition, she should be well on the way to recovery within a few weeks. Physically, at least.”
Dr. Ruiz knows enough about me to not ask too many questions about where the patient came from or what happened to her, but she’s a highly intelligent woman. She knows some of the hardest wounds to heal from hide deep beneath the skin. “Be gentle with her.”