Page 103 of Bride of Vengeance
"That'll never happen."
"Everyone says that. But grief is a powerful tool. You already believe he's dead. In a few weeks, you'll start accepting it. In a few months, you'll be desperate for any connection to him—even through serving me."
"You're delusional."
"Am I? You're already broken, Mariana. You just don't know it yet."
He leaves, and I'm alone with the monitors and my thoughts.
The video. Something about it bothers me, but I can't think clearly through the sedatives. The lighting? The angle? Or am I just so desperate that I'm imagining things?
Stop it. You watched him die.
I touch my stomach, where our child—or children—grow. "Your daddy was smart," I whisper, then catch myself using past tense and start sobbing again.
The door opens. A different guard, younger, nervous.
"Food," he says, setting a tray down. "Boss says you need to eat. For the baby."
I force myself to eat mechanically. Some part of my training still functions—gathering information automatically. Guard rotations. Camera positions. The fact that Jensen had started to say something about the video before Harrison interrupted.
But what's the point if Mikhail is dead?
For the baby. Do it for the baby.
I curl on my side, hand protective over my stomach. "I'll keep you safe," I promise. "Somehow."
But I can't shake that nagging doubt. The video. Jensen's interrupted words.What if Mikhail is still alive?
I close my eyes, exhausted from grief and drugs. Tomorrow I'll have to pretend to break while staying strong enough to protect this baby. Tomorrow I'll have to survive alone.
Unless—
Please,I pray to whoever might be listening.If there's any chance he's alive, let him find us.
But the monitors beep on, and no one answers.
Chapter twenty-one
Ghost Unleashed
Mikhail
The gunshot was blank. The blood was fake. The entire execution was theater, and Pavel's acting was surprisingly convincing.
What wasn't fake was the twenty minutes of torture beforehand—Harrison wanted authentic screams for his video. My ribs are cracked, possibly broken. My left eye is swollen shut. But I'm alive, which is more than Mariana surely believes.
They've had me in this cell for eighteen hours now, thinking I'm broken. Thinking the chains and guards are enough to hold me.
They're wrong.
The guard on night shift is young, maybe twenty-two. He keeps checking his phone, distracted by whatever drama is unfolding in his personal life. When he steps close to slide the food tray through the slot, I move.
The chains were never as secure as they looked—I've been working on the pin for hours, using techniques learned in black ops that don't officially exist. My hand slips free, grabs his wrist, pulls him against the bars. He's unconscious before he can scream.
Keys. Phone. Weapon. Everything I need.
I text Alexei from the guard's phone:
