Page 54 of Dirty Delivery

We arm ourselves amid the warehouse buzzing with grim determination. I check my weapon twice, my jaw clenched so tightly it aches. We load into vehicles and head toward the location. I’m driving, my thoughts racing as fast as the tires screeching against the pavement. The video replays on a loop in my mind. Every scream, every wound fuels the fire inside me.

This is what they wanted, isn’t it? To dangle her pain in front of me like a taunt, like some sick invitation. They thought I’d break, thought I’d crumble under the weight of it. But instead, they’ve done the opposite—they’ve lit the match. I’m coming, and I’m bringing hell with me.

I push the accelerator of the SUV harder, weaving through traffic with reckless abandon. The weight of every second thatticks by presses on my chest, each one a reminder of how close I am to losing her—or saving her. Each second is a fresh reminder of the stakes, of what’s waiting for us at the end of this road.

Hold on, Savannah. I’m coming for you.

Savannah

I’m back in my cell and the cold seeps into my bones. My body is barely functioning, every movement an effort. I’ve stopped trying to fight—what’s the point? All I can do now is wait. But not for my body to give out. No, I’m holding on for him. For Rylan. Because if anyone can find me, it’s him.

My mind clings to that thought like a lifeline, even as sarcasm sneaks in to keep me sane.You’ve really outdone yourself this time,I think bitterly.Damsel in distress in a filthy cell? What a cliché.But even through the bleakness, the idea of Rylan keeps me going. If there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that he’s relentless. And if I can just hold on a little longer, he’ll save me. He has to.

The silence is shattered by a deafening explosion. The walls shake, dust falling from the ceiling. Shouts and gunfire follow, the chaos growing louder with each passing second. My heart races, fear and hope battling for dominance.

I retreat to the farthest corner of my cell, curling into myself as I try to make sense of what’s happening. The door bursts open, and one of my torturers storms in, a gun in his hand. His face is twisted in fury as he shouts at me, his words venomous.

“This is all your fucking fault, you dirty whore! Signor Castillo is dead because of you! If you hadn’t let just anyone into that nasty cunt of yours, you wouldn’t even be in this mess!”

He points the gun at me. The firearm shakes in his quaking hands. “Stand up!” he barks.

Trembling, I force myself to my feet, then raise my hands in surrender. Tears stream down my face as I beg for my life. “Please, don’t,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the chaos behind him.

He steps closer, his rage boiling over. “You’re going to pay for this,” he snarls.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of movement. Rylan. No—it can’t be. My mind must be playing tricks on me. I blink hard, trying to shake off the hallucination. The cold, the exhaustion, the relentless fear—they must be conjuring him up, a cruel mirage of hope my shattered mind has decided to throw at me. But then he moves again, deliberate and precise, stepping just behind the goon with his weapon raised. My heart stops, a painful mix of disbelief and cautious hope crashing through me. He catches my eye, his piercing green gaze as steady as ever, and shakes his head, bringing a finger to his lips.

The goon notices my gaze shifting and begins to turn, but before he can react, Rylan pulls the trigger. The sound of the gunshot is deafening in the small space. The man collapses to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

I scream, the shock and relief overwhelming me. The last thing I see before the darkness overtakes me is Rylan rushing toward me, his face etched with anguish.

Chapter Forty-Four

Rylan

One Week Later

Savannah has been sleeping on and off for the entirety of the week, her body caught in a cycle of exhaustion and fragility. The state of her injuries—bruises, cuts, and the unmistakable signs of what they put her through—is exactly why we can’t risk a hospital. Too many questions, too many prying eyes. Instead, we brought a trusted doctor to the house, someone who knows how to assess the damage, treat her and keep their mouth shut.

She’s been put on IV antibiotics to treat the infections they inflicted on her and a steady drip of fluids and nutrition toallow her body the rest and nourishment it so desperately needs. Seeing her like this, so still and vulnerable, tears at my soul.

The Castillo Famiglia is no longer a threat. Every last one of them has been eliminated, except for a few lower-level men who managed to escape, but they pose no real danger. The storm is over—at least externally. Yet the damage they caused still festers in ways I can’t fix. My fists clench every time I think about what they put her through. It’s not enough that they’re gone. Their ghosts linger in her mind, and I would give anything to exorcise them for her.

Savannah’s sleep is plagued with nightmares. She thrashes, haunted by whatever horrors linger in her mind. All I can do is hold her close, stroke her hair, and whisper reassurances she likely barely hears. Sometimes she lets me comfort her, but other times she pulls away, lost in her own pain. It’s agonizing to watch her fight battles even in her rest. The cries she makes in her sleep pierce me to the core, leaving me helpless and wondering if I’ll ever be able to bring her the peace we found in our coastal hideaway again

By the eighth day, she’s a bit more alert. Her eyes stay open longer, and there’s a flicker of recognition when she looks at me. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. She doesn’t want me to leave her side. Every time I move, her hand reaches out as if to anchor me in place. Today, she surprised me by asking to take a bath. It’s the first request she’s made for herself since all of this began, and I jumped at the chance to give her something—anything—that might help her feel human again.

I help her into the bathroom. Her steps are hesitant and unsteady. Gently, I guide her as she removes her sleep shirt and shorts. Wrapping her in a towel to keep her warm, I turn to start filling the tub. The sound of the water hitting the porcelain breaks the silence, sharp and jarring. The noise causes herto flinch violently; her whole body tenses like a tightly coiled spring.

My chest tightens at the sight of her fear. I immediately turn off the water and kneel beside her, taking her cold, trembling hands in mine. “It’s okay,” I murmur softly. “You’re safe. I’ll be right here the whole time.”

She nods, though her eyes remain distant and haunted. I decide to change tactics, needing to show her there’s nothing to fear. “Here, watch me,” I say gently, stripping down to my boxers before climbing into the empty tub first. Once I’m settled, I reach over and turn the water back on, letting it flow softly around me to show her there’s nothing to be afraid of. I keep my movements slow and deliberate, letting her see it’s safe.

With my encouragement, she slowly steps forward, hesitating for just a moment before letting the towel drop from her grasp. She climbs into the tub, settling herself carefully between my legs as the warm water rises around us. Her frail body fits against mine like a fragile bird. My arms wrap around her gently, mindful of the bruises and healing wounds that mar her skin. Each mark tells a story I wish I could erase, and the sharpness of her bones against me is a cruel reminder of how much she’s endured.

She trembles in my embrace, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. Her sobs are quiet but cut through me like knives. I press soft kisses to her hair, her forehead, her shoulders, whispering the only words I can find. “I’ve got you, Savannah. You’re safe now. Nothing will ever happen to you again. I swear it.”

The words hang in the air, but they feel inadequate. There’s so much more I want to say, so much I’ve held back. The three words sitting heavily on my heart—I love you—threaten to spill out, but I hold them back. Not because they’re untrue, but because now isn’t the time. She doesn’t need the weight of my feelings added to her own. Instead, I pour every ounce of loveinto my actions—in the way I hold her, the way I refuse to let go, the way I stay.

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