Page 52 of His Ruthless Vow

"Uncle," he says, the word a mockery.

Zenon sighs, shaking his head as he steps around Kendra's chair. "You were always too sentimental, brother. It's what made you weak." He straightens his cuffs—a gesture so trivial, so ordinary while my blood pools on the warehouse floor. "A shame, really. You had such potential."

Ercole moves closer, towering over me, that familiar smirk twisting his face. "A fitting end for both of you." He kicks my gun further away, then glances at Kendra. "She might have been worth keeping, but damaged goods are damaged goods."

My vision blurs at the edges, but I force myself to focus. Kendra. I need to get to Kendra.

Zenon watches me struggle, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You know what they say about Zeus and his divine lightning, brother." He pulls something from his pocket—a lighter, the flame catching as he flicks it open. "The gods always punish those who betray their family."

With a nod to Ercole, he tosses the lighter toward a pile of debris. The flames catch immediately, hungry and eager, licking at the dried wood and years of accumulated dust.

"Goodbye, brother." Zenon's voice floats back as they walk away, unhurried, confident. "Perhaps in the next life, you'll choose more wisely."

The smoke rises faster than I expected, thick and choking. But I have to get us out of here.

31

KENDRA

I'm straining so hard against the restraints that my wrists are slick with blood, the metal biting into flesh with every frantic twist. The gag in my mouth has turned damp with saliva and tears, but the only sound I can manage is a muffled, animal keening as I watch the chaos unfold.

The warehouse is being consumed. Flames lick up the sides of wooden crates, dance along oil-stained concrete. I can already feel the heat changing the air, making it heavy, making it hurt. Black smoke rolls across the ceiling, thickening with each passing second.

But I barely register any of it. My entire world has narrowed to Enzo's body on the floor, the growing pool of crimson beneath him. His gray shirt is soaked through, darker where the bullet tore him open.

Please. Please don't die. Not like this.

My lungs burn from the smoke, from screaming against fabric that won't let sound escape. Tears streak down my face, cutting clean lines through the grime. I've never felt so utterly helpless, so completely trapped. The chains rattle again as I thrash, the sound lost beneath the roar of spreading flames.

And then—movement.

Enzo's fingers twitch. His broad shoulders tense. An agonized sound escapes him, raw and primal, as he presses his palm against the wound in his abdomen. Blood seeps through his fingers, a startling crimson against his olive skin.

His steel-gray eyes open, finding mine immediately through the growing haze. Something flickers in them—recognition, determination, rage—before he braces his free hand against the concrete.

Don't. You can't. Stay down.

But Enzo Rossi has never been a man who stays down.

His jaw clenches so tightly I can see the muscle flex as he hauls himself upward, fighting gravity, fighting blood loss, fighting death itself. He makes it to his knees first, swaying dangerously, face contorted in a grimace that reveals how much this costs him. His breath comes in harsh, ragged pants, visible even through the thickening air.

I sob against the gag, shaking my head violently. He needs to save himself. He needs to get out. A support beam crashes somewhere behind him, sending sparks cascading like demonic fireflies.

But Enzo's eyes never leave mine. There's a terrible, beautiful focus in them—cold and clear despite everything. He gets one foot planted, then pushes upward with a strangled sound that's half growl, half groan. Blood drips onto the concrete, marking his path as he staggers toward me, one hand still pressed tight against his wound.

Each step looks impossible. His face is ashen beneath his tan, jaw locked, shoulders curled inward around the pain. But his eyes—God, his eyes remain sharp, calculating, refusing to dim. This is the man who deals in calculated violence and careful control, channeling every ounce of that legendary will into simply not falling.

He stumbles once, catching himself against a crate that's already starting to burn. The contact draws a hiss of pain from him, but he pushes off again, closing the distance between us with the relentless determination of a force of nature.

I'm crying openly now, chest heaving with sobs that can't escape past the gag. The smoke burns my eyes, my throat, my lungs, but all I can focus on is this impossible man, bleeding out and burning up, who refuses to leave me behind.

Finally, Enzo reaches me. His hands, slick with his own blood, fumble at the gag first. The fabric tears away, leaving me gasping and coughing, gulping down air that tastes of smoke and fear.

"I never—" My voice breaks, raw from screaming into fabric that wouldn't let sound escape. My eyes burn from more than just the acrid smoke filling the warehouse. "I never betrayed you."

His jaw tightens, the muscle there flexing under his skin. Despite the blood loss, despite the flames licking closer, his steel-gray eyes lock onto mine with absolute clarity. His fingers work at the restraints, trembling but determined, leaving crimson smears across my wrists.

"I know."

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