Page 24 of The Mob Boss's Bride
He goes down with a howl of pain, weapon clattering from his grip. I kick it away, then press my foot to his wounded knee. His scream echoes off the bookshelves.
"Rodriguez sent you." Not a question.
"Fuck you, Vale," he spits through gritted teeth.
I apply more pressure to his ruined knee. "Where's my wife?"
"Don't know what you're talking about."
I shoot his other knee. His scream cuts off into a choked gurgle as shock sets in.
"Wrong answer. Where is she? What were your orders?"
Blood loss makes him more compliant. "Find the woman. Grab her if possible. Kill her if not." His eyes roll back slightly before he forces them to focus. "Insurance. Leverage."
Cold rage floods my system, but my hands remain steady as I press the gun to his forehead. "Where are the others?"
"Fuck y?—"
I pull the trigger before he finishes. No time for games. Not with Fern in danger.
The distinctive crack of gunfire from the direction of the east wing propels me forward, heart hammering against my ribs. The house feels too large suddenly, too many places where she could be hurt, hiding, afraid.
I find the source of the gunfire in the hallway outside our bedroom. Another of Rodriguez's men lies dead, multiple bullet wounds in his chest. Vex stands over him, reloading his weapon.
"Any sign of her?" I demand.
"Nothing yet. This one was trying to breach the master suite."
A thought strikes me. "The bakery kitchen."
"We cleared it. She wasn't?—"
But I'm already moving, mind racing to the small bathroom attached to the kitchen I built for her. The one with the reinforced door I insisted on "just in case." The one I showed her how to lock from the inside during our first tour.
The kitchen shows signs of interrupted work—a bowl of batter sitting on the counter, oven still warm. My heart contracts painfully at the thought of Fern hearing the commotion, realizing something was wrong.
"Fern?" I call out, approaching the bathroom door. "It's me. It's Atlas."
Silence. I try the handle—locked, as I hoped.
"Fern, baby, it's safe now. Open the door."
More silence, then a small voice: "Atlas? Is it really you?"
Relief crashes through me so violently my knees nearly buckle. "It's me, sugar. Just me. You can open the door."
I hear movement, then the click of the lock disengaging. The door opens slowly to reveal Fern, pale and trembling but gloriously, beautifully alive. Her eyes are wide with fear, a small cut on her cheek the only visible injury.
"Atlas," she breathes, and then she's in my arms, her body shaking with quiet sobs. "There were men—I heard gunshots—I didn't know what to do?—"
"Shh." I crush her against my chest, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped tight around her waist. "You did exactly right. You hid. You stayed safe." My voice breaks slightly. "You stayed alive."
She pulls back enough to look at me, her fingers tracing my face like she needs to confirm I'm real. "You're hurt." Her fingers come away red from a graze on my temple I hadn't even noticed.
"I'm fine." I check her over for injuries, finding only the small cut on her cheek and what will be bruises on her arms—likely from when she ran to hide. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
She shakes her head. "Just scared. I heard the alarms, then shouting, then gunshots. I remembered what you said about the bathroom door, so I locked myself in."
