Page 156 of Made for Sinners

Emilia.

Dressed in black, her hair pulled back tight, slipping through the chapel doors like a ghost. My chest tightened, my pulse hammering in my ears as I watched her disappear behind the altar.

And then… nothing.

She didn’t come back out.

I stared at the screen, my mind racing. Behind the altar. Why the hell would she go there?

And then it hit me.

A memory, sharp and sudden, like a blade slicing through the fog.

I was eight, maybe nine, sneaking into the chapel with my brothers. We weren’t supposed to be there—my father had made that clear—but that only made it more tempting. The altar had always fascinated us, its heavy stone base carved with intricate designs. One day, we’d dared each other to see what was behind it.

I could still remember the way my heart had pounded as we pushed aside the old wooden panel at the back. The tunnel beneath had been dark and narrow, the air damp and heavy. We’d crawled through it on our hands and knees, laughing and shoving, our voices echoing off the stone walls. It had felt like a secret world, one that belonged only to us.

But my father had found out.

I could still hear his voice, sharp and furious, as he ordered the tunnel sealed. “It’s dangerous,” he’d said. “You’re never to go near it again.”

And we hadn’t. Not after that.

But it was still there.

It had to be.

My stomach twisted as the memory faded, replaced by the cold, hard reality of the screen in front of me. She’d gone behind the altar. She’d found the tunnel.

And she never came back out.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, the word sharp and venomous. I straightened, my entire body thrumming with tension.

“There’s a tunnel under the altar,” I said, my voice cold and clipped.

The guard blinked at me. “A tunnel?”

“Yes,” I snapped. “It leads into the woods. Switch to the exterior cams.”

He fumbled with the controls, clicking through the feeds. The woods behind the estate. The old tree line.

There.

Movement.

Figures in black.

A flash of her face.

Then gone.

I stared at the screen, my hands clenched into fists.

The Russians had her.

They’d taken my wife.

And I hadn’t even heard her leave.

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