James
This woman has an unusual habit of fainting. The first two times were my fault, yes, but this time no. Did I see it coming from her friend and her escaping at some point? Yes. Did I see it coming that Seige only took her friend and not her? No. Did I see that there was to be an invasion from him in order to kill his own daughter? Fuck no.
That's the part that cracked something deep inside me. Not the bullets. Not the chaos. Not even the way her eyes didn't flinch when those pistols were raised at her. It was that moment; her standing there, quiet and still, like she knew. Like she'd known all along that she didn't matter to him. That motherfucker.
And then she was gone; knees buckling, body folding like a broken wing, the fire in her eyes dimming just as I grabbed her arm and dragged her back from the edge.
This wasn't a shock. It was surrender.
She didn't faint from fear. She fainted because hope finally gave out. Because the person she'd been waiting for her whole life just tried to erase her from it.
I should've left her there.
That was the clean move. The smart move. Let her deal with her own people, her own mess. She was one of their leaders, wasn't she? She was built into this warped empire with her father's name stitched into the foundation, and inherited the loyalty of killers and cowards alike.
Let her lie in the ruins of it.
But something, God, something, kept my feet moving toward the fire instead of away from it. Her weight was nothing in my arms, all soft limbs and silence, her head lolling against my shoulder like the fight had finally bled out of her. She wasn't dead. But something in her was. And I should've walked. I wanted to walk. It must be because my mom brought me up to be considerate and kind. Yes, that must be it. I cradled her closer, adjusted her body against mine, and shouted, "Muovetevi!"
My voice cut through the gunfire like a blade. "Copertura a sud-ovest! Portate la macchina adesso!"
My men scrambled into position, rifles snapping up, movement clean and fast. We moved through the smoke like wolves, weaving through bullet-riddled corridors and fallen bodies. Fleory flanked me, silent for once, her face grim and smeared with someone else's blood. She looked at the woman in my arms and then away, jaw tightening like she couldn't decide if she was angry I'd brought her or relieved I hadn't left her behind. Yeah. Join the club.
Outside, the air was thick with ash and gunpowder. The night was lit up with muzzle flashes and the dull orange glow of fire eating into the side of the mansion. It wouldn't stand much longer. A black car screeched into view, tires chewing gravel, doors already open.
"Vai vai vai!" I barked, and my men covered us, forming a moving wall as we sprinted for the vehicle.
I slid into the back seat, the girl still limp against me, and slammed the door just as bullets tore through the air where we'd stood a second earlier.
"Drive," I snapped.
The car lurched forward. And just like that, we were gone. The mansion burned behind us. Her legacy crumbled. Her men turned their guns on their own kind.
And I had her in my arms, unconscious and broken, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I didn't let her burn with it.
The car sped through the night, engine growling low as the driver took every turn like it owed him something. The inside smelled like gunpowder and sweat. Leather seats sticky with heat. She was crumpled against me, blood streaking down her temple, her lips parted slightly like she was caught somewhere between this world and the next. I kept my arm around her shoulders, fingers unconsciously pressing against the hollow of her neck to feel the pulse.
Still there. Weak, but steady.
Fleory sat beside us, legs spread, hands clasped between her knees, breathing like she'd run a marathon. Her eyes hadn't moved from the floor since we got in. She hadn't spoken, either. But I could feel the questions pulsing off her like heat. And the judgment.
"You're quiet," I said finally.
"Trying to decide if you've gone soft," she muttered, not looking up.
"Wouldn't be the worst thing," I said. "Better than becoming whatever the hell Siege is."
At that, her eyes finally lifted. Narrowed. "Siege ordered the hit?"
I glanced down at her in my arms. "She knew it the second she saw them."
Fleory's lips pressed into a tight line. She sat back, folding her arms like she was holding something in.
She didn't miss a beat. "You shouldn't have brought her."
I rolled my jaw, kept my voice level. "She would've died."
"She should've died." Fleory's voice was cold, biting. "That was her father's hit squad. Her mess. You don't drag a liability out of the fire just because she's bleeding."
She was? I looked down at the woman in my arms, blood crusted at her hairline, bruises blooming beneath her skin like something wilting.
"She's valuable," I said finally, the words sharp, as I assessed her bruises more closely. "She knows Siege's codes. His fallback patterns. She knows who he trusts, where he sends his shadows. She's been his shadow her whole life. Like it or not, we will need her," before adding "And she's my guest. She can die somewhere else but not in one of my properties."
Fleory scoffed. "That's not why you carried her out."
"She's a strategic asset," I repeated, firmer now. "If we're going to move on Siege, we need every edge. Every crack in his system. And she is that crack. He left her behind, Fleory. That makes her now dangerous, she would want revenge."
Fleory leaned forward a little, eyes locked on mine. "And if she wasn't? If she didn't know any of that? You still would've pulled her out."
I didn't answer. Because I wasn't sure. Because maybe she was right. But I didn't want to deal with that. I adjusted her in my arms, trying to ignore the way my chest tightened at how small she felt.
Her skin was pale, in a way that spoke of blood loss, of shock, of something vital slipping quietly out of her. Long black hair spilled over my arm like smoke, tangled from the chaos but still unnervingly perfect. It was the kind of black that swallowed light, like the night itself had claimed her. It clung to her like mourning, curling around the crease of my elbow like it belonged there. Her eyelashes were long, impossibly so, casting delicate shadows across her cheeks. Peaceful. But not the kind you earn. Still, her face held that same stubborn, haunting kind of beauty; the kind that made you look twice, and then regret it, because there was something so tired in it.
And as I sat there, holding her, feeling the faint thump of her pulse against my hand, I finally realized Fleory was still watching me. I forced myself to look away.
"She's going to hate that you carried her out," Fleory said eventually, dry as ash.
"Not my problem," I muttered, eyes fixed on the window.
The wind howled against the glass, sharp and violent, as the car sliced down the highway like it was running from something. Headlights smeared across the wet asphalt in broken streaks.
Fleory muttered it like she didn't want anyone to hear. "Are we finally flying home?"
I didn't answer right away. Just stared out the window as the trees blurred by, spindly silhouettes cracking against the headlights. Russia had drained us. Two weeks of ice-laced breath and concrete skies, of double-crosses and gunmetal dawns. No sun, just clouds that hovered like waiting fists. Even the snow here felt angry, sharp-edged and grimy. The sun had forgotten this place, and I hadn't realized how much I missed it until I thought of Italy—of marble courtyards soaked in gold, of the heat clinging to your shirt like a second skin. We weren't going back to Italy, though. Not yet.
Fleory pulled her coat tighter, leaned her head back against the seat. "I'm sick of this place," she said, voice low and rough. "Sick of waiting for the sky to bleed color again."
I nodded, almost to myself. "We fly at 12."
She didn't respond, but I could hear the exhale. A slow unraveling of tension she'd been coiled around for too long.
We flew to New York.
The jet cut across the clouds like a blade, silent and precise. Fleory slept, curled up like a fox in her oversized coat, while I stayed awake, one hand still resting over her pulse like it might vanish if I looked away. The windows blurred with sleet as we descended, city lights smearing the sky in amber and static.
JFK swallowed us in its usual chaos—flashing lights, men with tired eyes, a cold wind biting at the back of my neck the second we stepped off the plane.
Luca was already there, leaning against the black SUV like he owned the damn tarmac. He didn't smile, he never did, but the nod he gave me was its own kind of salute.
"Boss," he said, straightening.
Luca had that polished menace to him; sharp suit, sharper eyes, clean-shaven but always looking like he'd just walked out of a fight and won. He was an ex-Carabinieri, the kind of man who traded his badge for a better paycheck and fewer rules. Other than Fleory, he was the only one I trusted. He looked at the girl. Then back at me.
I didn't pause. "Car?"
"Waiting. You want the East House?"
"No. We go straight to my place."
Luca's eyes flicked to the girl again. Just for a second. But it was enough.
"She's the reason we lost more than four men?" he asked, voice low and even.
I stopped walking.
Fleory took a cautious step back, just far enough not to be in the splash zone. I turned my head slightly, enough to glance at Luca without taking my eyes fully off the path ahead.
"She's not your concern," I said, quiet and cutting. "You forgot your place?"
Luca didn't flinch, but there was a tension in his jaw now. "I remember my place. Just making sure you remember yours."
There it was. That thing that crept in when someone was the last man standing beside you for too long. Trust bloated into familiarity. Familiarity into arrogance. I stepped closer, still cradling the girl like she was nothing more than a coat draped over my arms. I leaned in just enough for my voice to hit bone.
"You're still here because I let you be," I said softly. "You're still breathing because I haven't decided you're more useful dead. Don't forget that."
Luca said nothing. His expression smoothed out like glass. Good. I turned around, resumed walking to the car and laid her across one of the backseats. Her hair spilled across the leather like smoke, catching the sun now, that deep, impossible black drinking in the light. Her breathing was shallow. Eyes flickered beneath her lids.
Luca leaned in just a little. "She's going to be a problem."
"Then she'll be my problem," I said.
He laughed under his breath. "Of course she will."
Then he slammed the door shut, walked around the front, and got in like nothing had been said at all. The engine purred to life. The city blurred around us as we made our way through the streets. My place was just ahead. Quiet. Almost too quiet for New York. But that was what I wanted. I didn't care that it was far from the glittering skyscrapers or the distractions of Manhattan. This place was mine, built on trust and blood. The few who lived in the shadows knew the rules: stay out of my business, and we'd get along fine. The car stopped, and Luca was out first, opening the door for me with a practiced hand. We all walked in silence to the front door, the weight of the girl still heavy in my arms, the click of the lock in the door echoing in the stillness. Inside, the penthouse felt even colder. The high ceilings stretched above us, casting long shadows across the walls, their elegance betrayed by the ever-present hum of tension that always hung in the air. It wasn't a home; it was a stronghold.
"Get her settled," I told Fleory. "Keep your eyes on her. I don't want any surprises."
She nodded and stepped forward, taking her from my arms with a professional ease, putting her weight on her shoulders.
The only warmth came from the fireplace, where a handful of my trusted men were gathered, speaking in low tones. They straightened as I walked in, and I gave them nothing more than a nod.
"Everything's secure?" I asked, not looking at anyone in particular.
"Yes, Boss," one of them said, a young guy who always had that nervous edge to his voice. "Everything's in place. All shipments are on track."
"Now tell me how the fuck did neither of you not see that invasion?"
"We thought we had enough—"
"Enough?" I cut him off, my voice sharp as a blade. "You thought you had enough? How many times have I told you that complacency kills? This isn't just some street hustle. This is the life I've built, and I won't have it crumbling because you got too comfortable with your cushy little routines."
The fire crackled behind me, a low, steady sound that only seemed to amplify the tension in the room. They were all waiting for me to let it go, to tell them it was just a mistake, but I wouldn't.
"Did you have eyes on the perimeter?" I asked, my voice lowering into a dangerous tone.
"Yeah, we had eyes, Boss, but the angle they came from... they masked their movements well. It was an ambush, plain and simple. No one was expecting it from that side."
"An ambush, huh?" I turned to face them fully, the weight of every word hanging like a countdown. "Tell me something, I don't run a fucking army of amateurs, and I sure as hell don't rely on men who can't even spot a goddamn ambush."
One of the men, a seasoned operator who had been with me since the early days, stepped forward. "Boss, there was no indication of a breach. Our intel was solid, and everything we had said about the area was clear."
He wasn't wrong, not entirely. But there had been a failure in the chain somewhere, and it wasn't just going to disappear because we had successful operations under our belt.
"We missed something," I said, slowly letting the words settle. "This wasn't a random raid. It was precise. Siege who orchestrated it knew exactly where to hit."
The man who spoke first, Marco, stood still but his expression was tight with the pressure of the question. "We'll track it down, Boss. We'll trace it back."
I nodded, but it wasn't enough. "I don't need to know who did it, that was clear already. You'll find me the how. I don't care how long it takes, but I expect results, not excuses."
There was no more need for words after that. The men knew what was at stake, and more importantly, they knew the standard I expected.
"Get to work," I said.
They dispersed without another word, their movements purposeful, already set in motion. I turned, my gaze locking onto Luca, who had been watching from the edge of the room, just out of earshot. His eyes narrowed when I moved toward him, sensing the shift in the air.
"And I need you to find out who, before they vanish." I said, my voice low, not needing to voice out that this was not Siege alone.
"You think it's one of ours?" he asked, his tone still calm, but there was the faintest edge beneath it. He was testing the waters, but I didn't have time for subtlety.
"It is one of ours. Someone got careless. And I don't give a damn if they're loyal or not, they'll turn if they feel the heat. I want them found. Now."
Luca's jaw tightened. He'd never been one to rush without information, but he also understood the way I operated—when I gave an order, it was final.
"Before they run," I added, my words deliberate, weighing heavy. "I don't care where they go, Luca. Find them."
He nodded, moving toward the door without a second thought. I pinched the bridge of my nose, falling back on the couch, feeling the exhaustion from the flight and the weight of everything catch up with me. The air in the room felt heavier now, thicker with the tension of what I had to handle, and for a brief moment, I let the fatigue wash over me. The kind of tiredness that settles deep into your bones, the kind that doesn't go away just because you've reached home. But there was no time to rest. I inhaled, forcing myself to focus. There would be no peace until everything was set in motion, and I couldn't afford to let anything slip. But just when I thought I could get only a moment of silence…
"James."
Fleory's voice cut through the thick silence. And then came the unmistakable sound of a crash; something heavy shattering on the floor. A vase, probably. Perfect timing. I pushed myself up and moved swiftly toward the source of the noise, stepping into the room to find her standing in the middle of it, eyes wide, clinging to whatever strength she had left just to stay upright. Her eyes locked with mine as Fleory stepped aside, and she didn't bother with pleasantries. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and fixed on me, full of fury and a deep, exhausted defiance.
"What the fuck do you still want from me?!" she snapped, her voice sharp, biting. She didn't even try to hide it, that edge of vulnerability beneath her anger.
I barely had time to process the venom in her words before she swayed on her feet, her eyes starting to roll back, like she was about to pass out again. Before she could, she slapped herself hard across the face, snapping back to reality with a sharp, almost primal gasp. My eyes narrowed in confusion before schooling it, leaning against the doorframe, folding my arms, letting the tension build just for a moment. She was a mess, barely standing, yet her defiance hit me like a slap.
Another fucking problem.
I wasn't going to waste time explaining myself, but the words came anyway. "I was hoping for a thank you, for saving your life," I said, letting the dry sarcasm drip from my tongue.
I was feeling anything but sarcasm.
"I didn't need your saving!" she barked, voice raw and desperate. "I don't need anything from you! You saw how he sent men to kill me. That concludes I'm not the one you want. You can't use me to get something out of him!"
"Why don't you sit down?" Fleory suggested, hands reaching to steady her, just as I replied, "You're not in any shape to stand here yelling at me."
She didn't move. Didn't acknowledge our words at first. But the fact that she stayed on her feet, swaying, eyes half-closed like she was about to collapse, only made her look more stubborn, more foolish. And for a moment, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She wasn't the type to feel sorry for. Didn't seem the type that would even let you. She was not delicate. No, there was something raw about her, something wild. And as she stood there, the world around her seemed to blur into insignificance, as if it existed only to frame her presence, to whisper of the untold stories that simmered just beneath her skin.
"I will not be your pawn. I've already made that mistake once."
Alya Corginei. The daughter of Siege.
How I missed him having a daughter, I'll never understand. Maybe it was by design. The Bratva doesn't raise daughters. They raised weapons. And Alya? She was, it seems, forged in silence, hidden behind shadows and smoke until the time was right. Metka. That's what they called her. The Mark. Because once she set her sights on you, you were marked on her list, that meant you were as good as dead. The sniper with forty confirmed kills before her eighteenth birthday. But Alya wasn't just some mercenary with a long-range rifle. She was Siege's right hand, his blood and blade. He trusted her with everything; shipments moving across Europe, arms deals deep in the Caucasus, it was her who oversaw the Istanbul job, where an entire port vanished off the radar for 48 hours. Her who handled the Shanghai route, keeping it clean and untraceable despite global eyes on it. Shipments crossing borders? She arranged them. Arms deals gone sour? She cleaned them up. She wasn't just his daughter. She was his heir. She was his shadow. His blade. His trust personified. Or so I thought. Or so she thought.
And I knew this how?
Because I used to work under Siege.