4. Gabriel

4

GAbrIEL

I t doesn't take long to figure out, with the help of the men that Masseo has allotted me, that it will be almost impossible to get Bella out of Igor's home without being caught.

Masseo sends me five of them, all men who have worked for him for some time. We sit down in the business lounge of the hotel, in a private side room, and they explain to me that they have some knowledge of what we're up against, from intel gathered before Bella's doomed wedding.

"The don wanted as much information as possible about Igor and his men. So some of his guys, and a handful of us, did some recon. Dug up some information, looked around the edges of his estate, and tried to get an idea of what kind of force he might bring with him. But it wasn't easy to do. Information is one thing—you can always get information if you're willing to pay for it." Edgar, the man who seems to be in charge of the small group, leans back in his chair as he addresses me. "I think you probably know that, already."

I nod. "I do."

"Well, then. We can get some things, if you're willing to pay whatever it takes to pry open certain mouths. A floor plan of Igor's mansion, maybe. Someone who can hack into security cameras. But as far as us making a direct attack on the mansion, and trying to get this girl out?" Edgar shakes his head. "There's no way. We'd all be slaughtered. Igor keeps heavy security. In fact, the only way I see this working in any scenario, if it's going to be an extraction, is to keep a minimum of people going in. One, maybe two guys. That's the best chance. But even then—" he frowns. "You're looking at a suicide mission here, boss."

I let out a slow breath. I hadn't expected good news. I'm well aware of how powerful Igor Lasilov is, and the kind of force he keeps around himself to protect against those who resent that power, or want some of it for themselves. But it's hard to keep a clear head, while wondering what's happening to Bella.

By now, Igor would have taken her back to the mansion. It's nearly dark, and I don't want to think about what might happen to her tonight. What he might have planned for her. It makes my stomach turn, makes it hard to think straight, to think rationally.

I want to see her. I know I shouldn't even try—if I'm caught, I'll be killed. Likely in a particularly unpleasant fashion, but that's not the part that deters me. It's that I know my family needs me. Cecelia and Danny have already lost one parent; it's not fair to risk them losing another.

"Boss?" Edgar taps his fingers against the table. "We need to come up with some kind of plan."

I nod. "So we look for an opportunity to go in," I say, after a moment's thought. "We take shifts, watching the house, looking for gaps in the security, their shift rotations, a place where we could take advantage of a moment of weakness to get inside. We also wait to see if she leaves at any point."

Edgar nods. "If she leaves, it'd be easier to take her back while she's away from the house. Fewer men to deal with, most likely, and easier to get to her. We'd have the best chance by going with that plan of attack."

"Alright, then." I ignore the knot in my stomach that forms at the idea of waiting. "We'll take shifts, then, watching for our opportunity. I'll come along this evening."

I can see that Edgar is on the verge of arguing—probably thinking that I'm not trained or equipped for this sort of mission, and he's probably right, if I'm being honest. But I think he also sees in my face that I'm not going to be deterred, and he nods.

"Do you have a place for the others to rest, while they're waiting to take over for us?"

"I'll get them a room." I stand up, and the others do as well. "And then we can head out, once it's full dark."

I reserve another room for Masseo's men to cycle in and out of as we take shifts, and then I go upstairs to check on my children. Aldo is watching the sports channel on low volume in the sitting room, and Agnes comes to the door to let me know that Cecelia and Danny are asleep.

"They were exhausted," she says quietly. "Today has been a lot for them."

"That's an understatement." I run a hand through my hair, glancing towards the bedroom. "Have they been mostly alright? Crying? Panic attacks?"

Agnes presses her lips together. "Danny has kept to himself. Playing with his cars, reading, not talking very much. Cecelia has questions—how did those men know Bella, what will happen to her, why they came to your house, how they knew where to find her." She lets out a slow breath. "I've done my best to deflect as much as possible, to tell her that I don't know much more than she does. Which, of course, is true," she adds, with a touch of reproach. "You should explain more, Gabriel. To me, at least—I expect a lot of it isn't exactly suitable for children's ears."

"When Bella is back with us," I promise, and Agnes shakes her head.

"Gabriel. I know you think all of this is for her to tell, but it's just—not. Not anymore, not when it's coming down on all of us, too. You say we're safe here, but—" she presses her lips together, giving me a knowing look. "You wouldn't be taking us out of the country on this ‘business trip' to the estate in Italy if you didn't think this man would be able to get to us here eventually. What is it that's going on, Gabriel?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose, finally nodding. "Igor Lasilov is the head of one of the major Bratva families here," I say slowly. "You might have heard of him."

Agnes frowns. "I think the name rings a bell. I recall hearing your father talk about someone by that name, I think? But I don't know anything other than that. I'm a housekeeper," she reminds me, and I chuckle.

"Agnes, you've never been just a housekeeper. You've been a part of the family since before I was born. And I don't doubt my mother took you into her confidence. Maybe my father, too, on occasion, just as I have."

"Well." A slight smirk plays at the corner of Agnes' mouth. "I still don't know much about this Igor."

"Bella was meant to marry his son. But before that, the daughter of the late Don D'Amelio was meant to marry him. But he passed, and the new don, Morelli, took issue with the marriage. He stopped it, and caused a huge rift between the families. So the solution was to give Igor's son a different bride—Bella."

Agnes' expression darkens. "Well." She purses her lips. "I've never liked the way women are traded around in these families. It has consequences. Usually only for them, but sometimes—" she gestures around the suite. "Those consequences are more far-reaching."

"I agree. Whole-heartedly." I give her a faint smile. "I'll never allow my own children to participate in those deals. I'll never take part in them. I've made a point to try to keep my distance from those machinations, exactly for that reason."

"Until Bella."

I let out a heavy breath. "Until Bella," I agree.

"I can't blame you." Agnes leans back against the armchair just behind her, taking some of the weight off of her feet. "She's a beautiful girl. Sweet. And wonderful with the children. If you're asking my opinion—and you're not, of course?—"

"But you're going to give it anyway."

Agnes nods, a small smile on her face as well, a knowing one. "You should marry the girl. Delilah wouldn't expect you to mourn her forever, and she'd be glad to know there's someone who loves her children so much—and you as well, Gabriel."

"I wouldn't say?—"

Agnes chuckles. "I have eyes, and my age means there's more wisdom in them than yours. Say what you like, but I see the way she looks at you and the way you look at her. I saw, especially, the way the two of you looked this morning. There's something more between you. But what will come of it—" She shrugs. "It's hard to say, especially now."

"I'm going to try to get her back. Carefully," I add, seeing the look on Agnes' face. "But I can't leave her there with him."

"No." Agnes sighs. "No, you can't." She leans forward, patting my arm. "You'll be smart about it. You always have been, with everything."

"You're in charge while I'm gone. Take care of them," I tell her, and she nods.

"I always do."

Edgar and one other man are waiting for me downstairs in the lobby, when I walk back down. There's a nondescript black car waiting for us outside—tinted windows, the usual trimmings. I slide into the passenger's side, leaning my head back against the seat as we start to drive.

I should be staying at the hotel. I know that. But the thought of sitting and waiting, with no idea of what is happening and no ability to influence it, feels maddening. Beyond that, if we are able to sneak in, or get to Bella once she leaves the house, I can't help but feel that it will go more smoothly with a familiar face. There's a chance that if we send in strangers to rescue her, she'll panic. But if I'm there?—

I know I'm rationalizing. I want to be there for her, no matter the risks, no matter whether it's the smartest way to handle this. And it's one of the hardest things I've ever had to do to stay rational, to do this in a measured way, rather than storming in to take her back by any means necessary.

Worse still is the small, angry voice in the back of my head that keeps thinking, over and over, that she's mine. Not his. But the truth is that Bella isn't mine. And she was never going to be.

I've never been a possessive man. But Bella does something to me, makes me feel things that I never have before. She makes me want to hold her like she's made of glass, protect her and heal her from every terrible thing that's ever happened, and at the same time defend her with a violence that I've never felt in all my life.

It makes rational thinking very, very difficult when it comes to her.

Edgar parks the car some distance from our destination, driving down an alleyway and turning off the engine. "We'll walk from here," he says, unlocking the door and stepping out. "We'll need to be careful. Everything relies on being able to stealthily get a lay of the land."

It's a common joke, the idea of wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses as a disguise, but it works. The three of us are all dressed down, in jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. Edgar is wearing a pair of aviators; Joe, the other man with me, has on a lightweight beanie and sunglasses, and I opted for the baseball cap-and-glasses combo. We're just three guys out for a walk, casually looking around, and Edgar and Joe both look entirely at ease. I make a mental note, watching them, to see if it's possible to bring them over to my own security full-time. They're both men I'd like to have working for me, with Gio. They're wasted on Masseo, in my opinion.

It's clear, after just a brief scouting mission, that we're not going to be able to easily find any way in, not until we can get a floor plan and see if there's any way in that isn't a main entrance. Igor has, unsurprisingly, heavy security, and a well-landscaped estate that doesn't offer a lot of blind spots. Instead, we find a spot a good distance from where we can be seen, and stake it out, Edgar producing a pair of high-vision binoculars.

For the most part, he does the watching. He has more expertise in this than I do. But after what feels like an interminable amount of time that passes, he hands over the binoculars, a tense expression on his face.

"I think that might be your girl. Far side, looks like maybe the third floor."

My heart slams against my ribs, an instantaneous reaction that briefly startles me with its ferocity. I pick up the binoculars immediately, focusing in to see if I really can get a glimpse of her.

For a moment, I think Edgar saw someone else. But then, as I stand there with my hands gripping the binoculars hard enough to turn my knuckles white, I see her move into view, passing by the window. She disappears, and then passes by again, like she's pacing the room.

My chest tightens, and I stand there, stock still, wanting another look. I can't see well enough to get her expression, exactly—the window is half-shrouded by curtains, and I can only get glimpses. Her chestnut hair, the shape of her body that I remember so well, a quick glance at her face, worried and pale. She's in a room with no balcony, which is wise. I'm surprised Igor put her in a room with a window, but there's no way to scale up to it, and he must not think Bella is the sort to jump out and put an end to all of this.

No. She wouldn't do that. I feel a hard jolt of pain, just thinking about it, but I know her better than that. She's undoubtedly scared, and uncertain, but she won't give up. And I have to believe that she knows me well enough, trusts me enough, to know that I'll come for her.

I won't leave her with him. I'll find a way out for her. It's just a matter of figuring out how.

"It's her," I confirm, handing Edgar back the binoculars. "Now we make a plan to get to her."

It's easier said than done. After two days of taking shifts watching the house, it's clear that Igor isn't going to allow Bella to leave. Every time we catch sight of her, it's in that same room. After that first sighting, one person keeps a watch on her room while the others keep a rotating watch on the house and grounds, and beginning the following morning, she doesn't appear to be allowed to leave the room at all, much less the mansion itself.

"That's good," Edgar says as we return to the hotel partway through the second day, to change shifts with the other three men. "If she's confined to that one room, then it will be easier to locate her in the house, if we can figure out a way in. That eliminates needing to search the house for her."

At that moment, I'm incredibly glad to have poached him from Masseo, because he's right. He's thinking with a clear head, without emotion, and right now, all I can think is how afraid Bella must be, trapped in that mansion, kept to a single room, panicking and waiting for help. But that line of thinking won't get her out, and Edgar is right. Her being in one spot consistently will make this far easier.

"I should have the floor plan by this evening," Edgar continued. "We'll formulate the rest of the plan then."

We end up in the business lounge around eight, with a printed floor plan spread out on the table, the three of us surveying it. I went upstairs and took a brief nap while I waited, checked in with Agnes and the children, and then spent the rest of the time arranging for our getaway once I have Bella back. I look at the map and then back at Edgar, who is frowning, his gaze flicking back and forth over the marked entrances.

"I only see two possible ways this works," he says finally. "There's a back way in that goes in through the wine cellar, here—" He points it out, tapping his finger against the paper. "For shipments. And there's a staff entrance here. The staff entrance, from what we can tell, is the least secured spot. Timed correctly, it's possible to get through there. But it would mean only one man going in, with backup waiting to get him and Bella out of there as soon as they emerge. More than one will draw too much attention. But one, dressed as staff, might be able to make his way through."

"It has to be me," I say instantly, and Edgar looks up sharply, his expression startled.

"You? No offense, Gabriel, but out of all of us, you have the least training for an extraction mission like this. It should be one of us. Vince?—"

I shake my head. "No. It has to be me," I repeat, and Edgar lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Fine, I'll bite. Why?"

"She's traumatized from what happened during her wedding to Pyotr. A strange man will frighten her—you'll have to waste valuable time explaining that you're there to rescue her and that it's alright. She'll see me and know that it's safe. She'll come with me."

"We're her father's security," Edgar says, exasperation still coloring his tone.

"You think she paid attention to all her father's security well enough to know your faces? Especially when she's been kept prisoner for days, afraid, with god knows what else happening to her. She won't know who you are; she'll just think you're more of Igor's men."

"Igor will recognize you , if he sees you. His men likely won't, except maybe ones who were at your house—" Edgar pauses, considering.

"The idea is not to be seen or noticed, correct?" I can see him faltering in his assurance that this is a bad idea, and I grasp the moment. "And we'll be doing this late at night. As long as no alarms are raised, Igor shouldn't be prowling the house. As long as I can avoid being noticed by anyone who might recognize me, I should be able to manage it."

"It's risky." Edgar frowns.

"No matter who goes in, it's risky." I shake my head. "But this is the best way to make sure Bella knows we're there to help. Time is the most important thing—getting in and out quickly."

I can see Edgar mulling it over. The truth is that I'm technically the one in charge here—I could simply insist that I be the one to go, and put an end to it. But I've often found over the course of my life that it's better to come to an agreement when working with others, rather than just giving orders. And I'd like Edgar and his men to want to stay and work with me, after. I have every intention of bringing them along to Italy as security, if they're willing.

"Alright," he says finally. "I've got experience driving in situations like these. I'll handle the getaway car. We'll wait here—" he points out a spot a brief distance from the shipment entrance for the wine cellar, "—and be ready to go as soon as you and Bella emerge. You'll go in here." He taps his finger against the line that marks the staff entrance. "You don't want to enter and exit from the same position—if anyone were to notice something amiss when you come in, that spot where you entered will be where they go first. You're less likely to run into trouble if you take a different route out."

I nod, watching as he outlines a potential route from the staff entrance to Bella's room, and then from there to the wine cellar. The last few days of watching the house has told us that it typically quiets down around eleven in the evening, so the plan that we outline involves my sneaking in just before then, and moving through the house while there are lower numbers of security and active staff, and Igor is less likely to be a problem.

Fortunately, I don't have much time to think about the gravity of what we're about to attempt—or the potential consequences of failure. There are too many moving pieces that I need to account for in the hours in between—arranging for my private jet to be ready as soon as we arrive on the tarmac, fueled and with an alert pilot, for transportation to get the children, Agnes, and Aldo there to meet us. Half the men are put on that duty, ready with a car to drive them there, and two others will accompany Edgar and I to be ready to go once I have Bella out of the mansion. I make sure all of the bags are packed—including what I retrieved from my house for Bella—and put Agnes in charge of ensuring that it all makes it to the jet.

When it's getting close to time for me to leave, I pull Agnes aside, taking her into the connected room and closing the door.

"You and Aldo will take the children to the hangar with the men I've assigned to get you there," I tell her, as calmly as I can manage. I can feel my pulse thumping, all of the ways that this could go wrong trying to crowd into my thoughts, but I resolutely push it back. The only way this will be successful is if I can keep a clear head. "This is dangerous, Agnes. I think you know that. But I can't just leave Bella with him. What he'll do to her?—"

"I know." Agnes nods. "I'd never tell you to leave another woman in that situation, Gabriel. But Danny and Cecelia?—"

"Are in your charge, if I don't come back." I see her eyes widen, and I keep talking, before she can argue with me. "I've had paperwork drawn up for a long time to make you and Aldo their guardians, if anything were ever to happen to me for any reason. The house and property will go to the two of you as well, in trust until Cecelia and Danny are old enough to claim it as their inheritance."

"Gabriel, that's too much," Agnes protests, and I shake my head.

"My parents trusted you both. So do I. I know you'll take care of them, and I know you'll make sure that they're raised the way Delilah and I would have wanted." I reach into my pocket, taking out a thick envelope that I hand to Agnes.

"What is this?" Her voice cracks slightly, and it's then that I realize she's trying not to cry herself. Her face doesn't betray any of it, as stalwart as ever, but I can hear that slight tremor that gives it away.

"Letters for them, when they're older, if I don't make it back. I trust your judgment on when they're old enough to read them." I feel my own throat tighten and clear it, taking a deep breath. "I hope none of this is necessary. If all of our plans go as they should, none of it will be. But it's better to be prepared." I give her a tight smile. "Just in case."

Agnes swallows hard, nodding. "I won't let you down," she says quietly. "We won't."

"I know." I squeeze her shoulder, once, before heading to the other room where Cecelia is reading, Danny playing with his action figures on the carpet.

"I'm going to be gone for a little while," I tell Cecelia, sitting down on the edge of the bed between them. "But I'll be back in a few hours." The possibility of it being a lie stings, but I tell myself that it's not—not really. I have every intention of coming back, and I'm going to do everything within my power to do exactly that.

There are a hundred things I want to say to them, and I can't say a single one without leaving them in fear that their father won't be coming back. I can't do that to them, not when their mother is gone too, not when Bella—the only other person besides me and Agnes and Aldo that they've grown that attached to—was taken away right in front of them. So, instead, I fold Cecelia into my arms, kissing the top of her head as I squeeze her tightly. And then I turn, scooping Danny up off of the carpet and into a hug as he laughs, completely unaware of the tension of the situation. I kiss the side of his head, too, setting him down next to Cecelia.

"Agnes and Aldo are going to get you to the plane for us to leave on our trip," I explain, just before I get ready to go. "I'll be there right after, with Bella."

Danny nods, giving me another squeeze, but Cecelia eyes me with a shrewdness that feels too astute for her age. I can't help wondering how much of that is because of what's happened in the last few days, and I hate that that's even in question. That there's a possibility that Igor is responsible not only for the harm to Bella, but for forcing my daughter to grow up faster than she should ever have had to.

The thought makes me feel that cold flood of rage, all over again. And I can't help thinking that even though it won't be today, even though tonight is only about escape—one day, I'm going to make sure he pays for all of this. Somehow.

Once I figure out how to make sure it happens without harming anyone I love.

It all moves quickly, after that. I go down to meet Edgar, along with Joe and Zeke, the other of the men who will be accompanying us. A car is waiting, and I slide into the back, every muscle in my body wound tight.

I'm not armed—it would cause too much suspicion if anyone noticed, and in the end, if I'm caught, it won't help me. This is a stealth mission, through and through, and I'm painfully aware of how little I know about how to pull something like this off. But it doesn't matter.

I'd do anything I needed to in order to get Bella safely back home. To make sure that she doesn't stay in the hands of a monster.

Edgar parks at the agreed-upon spot, far enough back that no one should see the car in the shadows. I slip out, past the treeline, dressed in black pants, a black shirt, and a black cap pulled low over my eyes to mimic what a good deal of Igor's security seems to wear. My heart is thudding against my ribs, beating with trepidation at the knowledge that every step is one closer to Bella—or to a failure that will shatter both my life and hers.

The staff entrance is patrolled by two rotating security guards. I wait from the shadows as I watch them go right and left, briefly leaving the door unguarded. It's my chance to move, and I slip across the manicured lawn, sticking to the shadowed trees, to the back door.

To my relief, it's not locked. We didn't think it would be—a staff entrance is usually left open up to a certain point in the night, but it was impossible to be absolutely sure. The door opens easily, and I slip into the cool silence of Igor's mansion, fear still thrilling down my spine.

There's no going back from here. I force myself to behave naturally, in case anyone spied me coming in—not like someone sneaking around, which is a difficult thing to fake. If I look suspicious at all, I'm more likely to draw suspicion. But I'm a businessman, not an actor or a soldier, and my nerves feel frayed raw as I move forward, through the mudroom and out into what appears to be a large kitchen.

It's silent and dark. I go over the path to Bella's room in my head as I walk with purpose, sticking to the hallways. I looked at the map of the mansion until the floor plan was burned into my memory, and I let that guide me, slipping through the house and up the stairways. I move with purpose, an affectation of a man with somewhere specific to be—and that part, at least, is true, which makes it easier.

The next possible obstacle is whether or not Bella's door is locked. I have a lockpick that Edgar gave me for exactly that purpose, but that will take time, and I'm not practiced in using it. The best-case scenario is that Bella's door is unlocked, but I have a feeling that's unlikely. And I'll have to be quick, if I need to use the lockpick. If anyone sees me, it'll be clear that I'm doing something I shouldn't.

My heart beats faster as I pass by two of Igor's security, walking the opposite way from the stairs, across the second-floor hallway. But they barely look at me, both of them conversing with each other. My disguise, it seems, is at least good enough to keep from drawing casual attention. The real test will come when I try to leave with Bella.

I head up the next flight of stairs, mentally counting doorways to the one that should be Bella's. This all relies on nothing having changed—if Igor has moved her to a different room, it'll be like finding a needle in a haystack. Dozens of rooms, with no further clue as to which one she might be in or whether she'll be brought back to this one—or who else might be in those other rooms, if I went searching.

The door is locked. There's no way to know who might have the key—the lockpick is the only option. Cursing under my breath, I take the lockpick out of my pocket, glancing up and down the hall. There's no sign of anyone else, no sounds of footsteps or any other hint that someone might be coming. Regardless, I know I probably don't have long.

Edgar showed me how to use it, but that doesn't make it easy. I force myself to focus on keeping my hands steady—not thinking about the consequences of failure or what might happen if I'm caught. For a brief, terrifying moment, I can't get it to catch, and I grit my teeth, refusing to accept failure. Getting caught is the worst possible outcome, but neither can I fathom the idea of simply turning and walking away, of being so close to Bella and just leaving her here in the end.

I can't abandon her. Not now.

There's an echo of footsteps, coming up the stairs, and I twist the pick, breath catching, as I wait to see if it clicks. I don't dare look over my shoulder, or see how close someone might be. All I can do is try to get into the room before I'm seen.

A flood of relief hits me when I feel it give. I open the door, slipping inside and closing it just as the footsteps start to get closer. I turn, and the relief is amplified a hundred times over when I see Bella standing on the other side of the room, frozen in shock.

Her mouth drops partway open, and I yank my hat off, pressing one finger to my lips. She says nothing, but her shocked expression turns fearful as she looks at the door, and she takes a step back. I can see her trembling, her eyes wide, and her hands twisting in front of her.

Quickly, I cross the room to her. I want to ask her if she's alright, but that feels like a complicated question, one that can't really be answered right now.

"Does anyone come up this late?" I ask her quietly, glancing back towards the door. Bella shakes her head, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.

"Gabriel, what are you?—"

"Getting you out of here. I have a plan. But we have to be very careful, and very quiet. And I need to touch you." I reach out towards her arm, giving her a moment to say no. But she just swallows hard and nods, her eyes wide and round with fear.

I hate seeing her afraid.

But in this particular moment, her fear is useful. If anyone does catch us, I need to sell that I'm taking her somewhere against her will, and that's only possible if she looks frightened.

"You'll be safe soon. Just follow me." I reach out, my hand gripping her upper arm just above the elbow.

"Gabriel, no," she breathes, shaking her head and tugging back slightly against my grip. "You shouldn't have come?—"

"I know. But I'm here now. Bella, we have to go?—"

"No!" She hisses the word, shaking her head harder, and I can feel the shivers running through her, her every muscle wound tight as if that's all that's keeping her from collapsing. "I have to stay. If Igor finds out I've tried to leave—if I leave—he'll hurt you, and the children…he threatened Cecelia—" The words tumble out in a string of trembling whispers, and I can see tears welling up in her eyes.

"I'm not leaving without you, Bella." I reach up, cupping her chin in one hand as I face her, my heart pounding as I desperately try to get her to listen to me. "I'm already here. If we keep standing here arguing, I'm dead. And Igor will take it out on you, too. We have to get moving, or he will hurt us both."

Something about that shakes her fear loose. She swallows hard, her eyes searching my face rapidly, and then she nods. "Okay," she whispers, her voice shaking so hard that the word cracks and trails off at the end. "Gabriel?—"

"We'll talk after we get you out of here. Just follow me," I repeat, gently rubbing my thumb over her elbow as I tug her forward. We don't have time to waste, but I can't stand the feeling of her shaking while I'm touching her.

We just have to get out. That's all. I can't let myself imagine failure. I have to get her out of here. That's the only outcome I can allow myself to think of as a possibility.

I hesitate at the door, listening for footsteps. I hear nothing—whoever was coming up the stairs must have passed by or gone back down. Another beat, and when there's still nothing, I open the door and step out into the hall, still holding Bella by the arm.

The entrance to the wine cellar is on the bottom floor, to the left of the house. I walk Bella briskly down the stairs, keeping a watch for anyone passing by. I see a maid, who glances in our direction, but she drops her gaze and scurries past, clearly not wanting to involve herself in anything having to do with Bella.

The grand foyer is empty. I turn Bella to the left, heading towards the door that will lead down into the wine cellar—and almost immediately come face to face with a tall, bulky man in black fatigues, his blond hair buzzed short to near-nothingness.

"You." He barks out the word in a thick Russian accent. "Where are you taking her?"

It's not one of the men who came with Igor to my house. That, I can work with.

My hand tightens on Bella's arm. I don't dare look back at her to see what her expression is, but I have a feeling that it's frightened enough to sell what I'm about to say.

"The pakhan wants to see her. I'm taking her to him."

The guard's eyes narrow. "The pakhan's suite is upstairs. Why do you need to bring her down here?"

"He requested she bring a bottle of wine with her." I shrug, as if it makes no sense to me, but it's not my place to question. "Said to have her pick it out. He wants to know her taste." I laugh, smirking at the other guard as if we're sharing a private joke. Inwardly, my stomach writhes at the lie, at objectifying the woman I've grown to care so much for, even if it's for her own safety.

The guard looks at me for a long moment, as if trying to discern whether or not I'm lying—if I'm taking Bella down to the wine cellar for my own pleasure, perhaps. Or trying to recall if he recognizes my face, maybe. That last thought makes my gut twist again, but I keep my expression steady, trying not to let it show.

I can tell he's weighing the need to verify what I'm saying against the potential ramifications of delaying Igor getting what he wants, if I'm telling the truth. Finally, the guard shrugs. "Don't keep him waiting," he says, and pushes past me, walking briskly away.

My heart slams against my ribs, and I have to fight not to exhale loudly with relief. Instead, I tug Bella forward, towards the door that leads down to the wine cellar, picking up my pace. Now that someone is aware of the lie, time is ticking faster than before. If that guard thinks to go and verify anything at all, we'll have a pursuit within minutes.

"We have to hurry," I murmur quietly as I lead Bella down the steps, into the dark wine cellar. I've memorized the path to the back entrance, and I lead her through the shelves, towards the back left corner of the room. She stays very close to me as she follows, almost touching, and my pulse leaps in my throat, speeding up at the feeling of the warmth of her so close to me.

Above us, I hear the quick patter of footsteps. "Shit," I breathe, walking faster. We're within a few feet of the back entrance, and I lead Bella up the steps, shoving the heavy door open as we hurry out into the humid night air. The door closes behind me heavily, the noise uncomfortably loud in the silence of the evening, and I don't let go of her arm.

"We have a car waiting. Follow me. They're going to be right behind us."

Bella makes a choked noise, but I feel her speed up, sticking close behind me as we veer away from the mansion into the shadows of the nearby trees. I see the outline of the waiting car, just as thunder rolls across the sky, darker than usual because of the heavy cloud cover that's come in. I'm thankful for it—the lack of moonlight will make it harder to see us as we both break into a jog, heading for the black car. Behind me, I hear the sound of the door to the wine cellar opening, just as we duck behind the trees.

I can see how hard Bella is trying not to hyperventilate as we reach the car. She twists around, looking back towards the house, and for a brief moment, I think she's going to run from me. She looks back at me, her eyes wide as a frightened deer.

"I could still go back," she whispers. "I could tell Igor I ran and apologize. Maybe he wouldn't?—"

"No." I shake my head, grabbing her hand before she can make good on that comment, and flee. There's no time to be cautious about touching her now—I can't lose her again. I can't let her go back to him. "Bella, please. It's going to be okay."

Edgar flings the back door of the car open, and I see her flinch back automatically at the sight of him—a man she doesn't immediately recognize—before I press my hand to the small of her back.

"They're with me," I murmur, and I feel her relax a fraction, although there's still tension running through every inch of her. "Some of your father's men."

"My father—" she whispers it weakly, her voice shaking slightly. Still, she slides into the car, her hands knotted tightly in her lap as she looks up immediately to see if I follow. I slide in next to her, and her hand seeks out mine automatically, gripping it tightly. At that moment, despite the danger, despite everything we still need to overcome before I can get her back home, I feel something let go inside of me.

She still wants to touch me. She's seeking me out for comfort. Whatever happened to her there, it didn't undo all the progress she's made. And that's enough for me to feel a wave of relief, regardless of what's still to come.

"Drive," I tell Edgar sharply, and he throws the car into gear, the tires spinning slightly as he veers out onto the street. It's starting to rain, and I wince, knowing it will be harder to see who might be following us. But it will also be harder to track us, as well.

Edgar is an excellent driver. He whips through the side streets at a speed that would make other drivers slide and crash, especially with the wet highways. Bella comes back to herself just long enough to look out of the window, a frown creasing her brow.

"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice shaking slightly.

"A hangar where my private jet is waiting."

"Your—private—" She licks her lips, looking confused. I can see that she's struggling to put together what's happening, all the stress and fear muddling her thoughts. "Where am I going?" she asks, her voice softer, and my heart cracks a little as I realize that she thinks I'm sending her away.

"It's where we're going," I reassure her. "We're going to Italy. I have business there. Another car is bringing Cecelia, Danny, Agnes, and Aldo right now. They'll meet us there. We're getting out of here, until I can be sure that it's safe to come home."

"Oh." Bella barely enunciates the word, her mouth forming the shape as she looks ahead. "Italy."

She doesn't say anything else. The rain is coming down harder now, Edgar still speeding through the streets, and I see her lips press together thinly, white around the edges. I think of us speeding down the back roads near my house in the Ferrari, of her excitement and the thrill that we shared, and I wish we could go back to that. To a moment when flying down a darkened road in a fast car was exciting, instead of terrifying.

"We'll be there soon," I murmur, and she gives a small nod. It's hard for me to fully see her expression, but from the way she's gripping my hand, I can tell she's afraid.

Edgar skids onto the tarmac, throwing the car into park. Through the rain, I can see the gleaming hull of the waiting jet, and another black car waiting nearby.

"We need to go," Edgar says, jumping out of the car. "Hard to say if they're following us, or if so, how far behind they might be. Go!"

He yanks open Bella's door, and she slides out, letting out a small gasp as her bare feet hit the wet tarmac. I move without thinking, sweeping her up into my arms and cradling her against my chest as I see the doors of the other car opening, Agnes and Aldo ushering Cecelia and Danny out.

"Help them with the bags!" I call out to Joe, striding towards the jet with Bella shivering in my arms, both of us soaked from the rain already. "Hurry!"

Bella is breathing in small, short gasps, her hand curled in the front of my shirt, holding onto me like she needs me here with her, like I'm keeping her anchored. And at this moment, I don't ever want to let go of her. Not once we're on the jet, not once we're in Italy, and not ever again.

I don't have time to fully unpack that feeling right now—all of the repercussions, all the reasons why I've denied myself that desire in the past when it comes to her. I hurry up the steps of the jet, the others' footsteps behind me, and step out of the aisle into the first row of seats as they file onto the jet.

"Bella!" Cecelia cries out her name, and I feel Bella lift her head from my shoulder.

"Hey," she says softly, her voice cracking a little.

Agnes takes one look at me holding Bella, and urges Cecelia and Danny ahead. "You can talk to Bella once she's had some rest," she says firmly. "Gabriel, I'll get them settled in the other bedroom. You get Bella comfortable."

"You and Aldo—" I start to say, and Agnes shakes her head.

"We'll be just fine in the seats."

"You—"

"Not a word," Agnes says firmly, still ushering the children along. "These fancy plush seats are as good as any bed. Don't argue with me," she throws over her shoulder.

"Come on," I murmur, letting out a sigh as I hold Bella closer to my chest. "I'll get you settled in the other room."

Her hair is wet, sticking to the side of my neck, and the feeling of it does something strange to me, along with the sensation of her fingers wrapped in my shirt. I've always touched Bella carefully, always given her plenty of room to pull away, to say no, to stop me if she wants me to stop. I've never just grabbed her and kissed her outright, no matter how many times I've wanted to do it, how many times the fantasy has occurred to me.

But as I step into the other bedroom at the back of the private jet, kicking the door shut behind us, that small possessive corner of my mind rears up, spurred on by the feeling of her hand clutching me and her body curled against mine, her damp hair trailing over my shirt and my skin. I set her down gently, her hand still pressed against my chest, and a wild feeling sweeps over me, something so uncontrollable that for the first time, I don't stop myself from touching her until I'm absolutely sure.

The wall is an inch away. I move towards her, closing the small distance between us in a single step, and Bella lets out a noise that's half-whimper, half-gasp, her lips parting as she looks up at me. The sound shoots straight to my cock, thrumming in my blood, and I back her against the wall, one hand on her hip as the other cups her cheek, damp and cool skin against the wet, flushed heat of her face.

And then I crush my mouth to hers, every inch of my body molding against her.