Page 54 of Savage Reckoning
Isabel pulls away. There’s a flicker of triumph in her eyes as she takes in my flushed cheeks. She checks an elegant watch on her wrist.
“As much as I’d love to continue this lesson,” she says with genuine regret, “your fiancé is notoriously punctual. I have to go.”
She straightens her suit jacket, all composure, as if the heated moment never happened. I’m left reeling, my senses in chaos.
Isabel leans in one last time. “Don’t worry,” she says, her voice a low promise that sends another unwelcome tremor through me. “When he’s dealt with, you and I will finish what we started.”
She straightens up, but instead of leaving, she pulls a black silk scarf from her pocket. “One last detail,” she says, all business again, though her eyes dance with something else entirely. “We have to make the scene convincing. Nico will expect to find you silenced.”
She unfolds the silk. It’s soft and expensive. Before I can protest, she expertly fits it into my mouth, the fabric a smooth intrusion. Her fingers are deft as she ties it securely behind my head, the knot tight. Her knuckles brush against the sensitive skin of my neck, a final, deliberate touch that has nothing to do with staging and everything to do with power.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. Her eyes travel from the gag, down the ropes binding my body, a flicker of dark satisfaction in her gaze. “Perfect. The terrified captive, unable to even scream for her hero.”
With a final, lingering look that feels like a physical caress, Isabel turns. Her heels click a steady rhythm on the concrete as she walks away, the sound repeating in the vast space until it fades into oppressive quiet.
And just like that, I am alone. Bound, gagged, and waiting in the dark.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NICO
The world reducesto the weight of the Glock in my palm and the sound of my breathing. Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.
Blake moves silently to my right, Alessandro’s elite team fanning out behind us in perfect formation. The derelict Sterling Steel Mill rises before us, a massive silhouette against the night sky. Its rusted frame reminds me of a beached whale carcass—once mighty, now hollowed out and left to decay. Moonlight filters through the broken windows, casting long fingers of light across the crumbling concrete.
“Perimeter secured,” Blake’s voice comes through my earpiece, a low tone. “No signs of Moretti’s men.”
I survey the building, every sense on high alert. Something feels wrong. This isn’t a typical ambush. The quiet is too complete, the isolation too perfect. If this is a trap, it’s unlike any Moretti has set before.
“Three entry points,” I say, gesturing with my free hand. “Blake, you take Alpha team through the east loading dock. Bravo will cover the west exit. I’ll lead Charlie through the main entrance.”
Blake hesitates. “Sir, protocol?—”
“I’m going in first.” My tone permits no debate.Protocol can go to hell. Lea is in there.
The thought of her—bound, terrified, at Moretti’s mercy—sends a bolt of raw fury through me. I force it down, lock it away. Emotion is a luxury I cannot afford. I need the cold, calculating mind that has kept me alive. Later, I will repay Moretti. I will make him watch as I dismantle everything he values brick by brick.
But first, I need Lea back.
I approach the rusted main door, Team Charlie moving in perfect sync behind me. The door gives way with a protesting screech. We enter the cavernous space, weapons raised, sweeping in practiced formation. The tactical light on my Glock cuts through the darkness, illuminating decades of abandonment.
“Clear,” comes the word through my earpiece, first from one man, then another.
I move deeper into the building, step over a fallen beam, narrowly avoiding a patch of broken glass. My earpiece crackles. “East wing clear,” Blake reports. “West clear as well. No hostiles.”
I frown. This makes no sense. Moretti wouldn’t just leave her unguarded.
A muffled sound reaches me. I freeze, raising a fist to halt my team. There it is again—a soft, desperate sound.
I signal for the team to hold their positions, then move forward alone, staying close to the shadows. The sound grows louder as I approach what must have been the main melting floor—a vast open space dominated by giant, rusted machinery. And there, directly beneath a single industrial light, is Lea.
The sight of her stops my breath. She’s bound to a metal chair, her dark hair falling in tangled waves. She’s gagged, her eyes wide with frantic terror as she struggles against the ropes. My anger is a white-hot flash, but I force myself to assess.
She’s alone. No guards, no Moretti. It makes no tactical sense unless?—
My eyes drop from her face to the chair. And I see it.
Taped to the underside of her seat is a block of C4, wired to a digital timer. The red numbers are counting down. 1:47… 1:46…
