Page 21 of Dark Promise

Sabina collapses to her knees beside him, her breath coming in sharp bursts. With shaking hands she presses her silk scarf against the wound on his head.

“He’s losing a lot of blood,” she says.

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” I say. Truth. “He’ll be okay.” Possibly the truth, possibly not. But I can’t let myself think about that. I need to focus on getting us somewhere safe.

The flames are stronger, hotter, higher, licking hungrily along the hood. The car that hit us can’t be far, and when they get here, they won’t be offering us help.

I look at Sabina. She’s wearing a black cashmere turtleneck and a high-waisted pencil skirt under a tailored camel coat. And her trademark sky-high heels.

Fuck. How far can she even get in that outfit? Every step will sink her heels deeper into the snow, and if the cold doesn’t get her, a twisted ankle might. She’s trembling already, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but I can see the tremble in her hands as she clutches the collar of her coat tighter around her neck. Her designer ensemble might as well be paper armor against this relentless storm.

I grit my teeth. Sabina Russo is many things—stubborn, sharp, a thorn in my side—but fragile isn’t one of them. And yet, in this moment, with the wind cutting like a knife and snow thickening around us, her refinement feels out of place. Vulnerable. Dangerous. She’s not dressed to survive this. And whether she likes it or not, her survival is now my priority. All of our survival.

“Help me get him up,” I order, grabbing Piotr under the arms.

Sabina nods, slipping an arm around his waist as we lift him together, the discrepancy in our height leaving Piotr listing heavily to one side. He groans, his head lolling forward, but he doesn’t resist.

The sound of an engine pierces the wind. Headlights cut through the swirling snow, and my gut tightens. A black SUV pulls to a stop a few yards away, its doors snapping open.

Four men step out, their boots crunching against the snow. Guns gleam in their hands, the cold steel reflecting the dim light. Vasiliev’s men. Of course. The only message Chicago wants to send is death.

One of them steps forward, his scarred face twisted into a sneer. His gun is trained on my chest. “On your knees,” he barks in Russian.

I lower Piotr back to the ground then slowly sink to my knees beside him, my hands loose at my sides. It’s a position meant to humiliate, but humiliation requires surrender. I’mnot surrendering, just biding my time. The moment will come. Sabina makes a noise—half gasp, half growl—but I shake my head sharply, silencing her. Not now.

“Vasiliev sends his regards,” the thug says, his voice venomous. “Two good men, left to rot in that motel. You thought we wouldn’t notice?”

“They weren’t good men,” I reply evenly, my voice cold. “They were fools.” Not just fools—examples. Their deaths were deliberate. Loud. I wanted the Chicago syndicate to notice, to understand that if they stepped into my territory, I would annihilate them.

The thug’s jaw tightens, his finger twitching on the trigger.

“Phones,” another man orders, stepping forward. They yank mine and Sabina’s from my pocket, toss them into the snow, and shoot them. Smart—they can’t exactly smash them underfoot given the inches of snow covering the ground. I hate smart enemies.

The first thug meets my gaze, then offers a twisted smile. He lifts his gun, aims, shoots.

Piotr crumples, blood pooling around his head, almost black against the blanket of white. The sight of it—of him—twists in my chest, acute and raw, but I don’t let it show. My grief will wait. Their deaths will not.

The thug turns to Sabina, his grin lecherous.

“Pretty girl,” he says, his tone mocking. “Maybe we take her with us.”

No one touches Sabina. She ismine.

Pulling the knife from my boot, I’m on him before he can react. My blade finds his throat in a swift, brutal motion. His blood sprays hot in the freezing wind, spattering my arm, my face. The others scramble, shouting, but I’m already moving, striking the next one with precision.

A gunshot rings out, the bullet passing so close I feel the heat of it on my cheek. I dive, taking a third man down, rolling so he is positioned atop me. I use his body as a shield while I slam my blade into the side of his throat, severing his carotid artery. Then I shove him off as blood sprays, a crimson fountain.

I surge to my feet and spin and find Sabina wielding a long shard of glass with both hands, ready to defend herself.

The last man hesitates, his eyes darting between me and the bodies in the snow. Then he turns and bolts, diving into the SUV and speeding off.

Coward. His survival in this moment buys him nothing but a slower death. I’ll find him. I’ll end him. But not now. Not yet.

I stand there, breathing hard, my vision hazed red with rage.

Piotr is dead. Sabina is alive but shaken.

I will make them all pay.

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