Chapter 6

The only things left in the air were the sickening smell of blood and the heavy breathing of the Irish killers.

“Spit.”

The scarred man spat a bloody glob onto the floor and walked over to me.

He pulled a pistol from his belt and pressed it to my forehead.

“Bad luck, Miss De Luca,” he said, his rough thumb on the trigger. His voice was mocking. “Just before your pretty boy Julian ran out of here, that little two-faced bitch gave me a signal. An encrypted text. Promised me an extra five million from the Caldwell family if I put a bullet in you right here. Make sure you never leave this garage.”

So that was it.

Isla didn’t just want to use me to escape. She wanted to make sure I had no escape at all.

“Next life, choose your family better. Don’t be a stepping stone for a pack of wolves that eat their own,” the man said, delivering my death sentence.

The cold metal of the gun pressed into my skin.

After ten seconds of dead silence, a low laugh escaped my lips.

The man’s finger paused on the trigger.

“What are you laughing at? You crazy?” he grunted.

“I’m laughing at you. You’re being played for a fool.” I slowly lifted my head. “That five million she promised you? She couldn’t give you five hundred dollars right now. Because as of a few minutes ago, every single offshore account and liquid asset of the De Luca and Caldwell families has been frozen.”

His eyes went sharp. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that they’re broke. She played you,” I said, leaning back against the greasy chair. “But I have one hundred million dollars in cash. Money you could never earn in a hundred lifetimes. Now. Lower your gun. Get the burner phone from my jacket pocket. And cut me loose.”

I looked straight into his murderous eyes and made my offer.

“I’ll give you twenty million. To buy my own life.”

He stared at me for a full thirty seconds.

He found the phone in my torn jacket and used his knife to slice the ropes binding my hands.

My hands trembled uncontrollably from the lack of circulation. The reopened wounds on my palms smeared the screen with blood.

But in thirty seconds, I completed the transfer from my Swiss account right in front of him.

Ping.

The scarred man’s phone chimed.

He looked at the twenty million dollars that had just landed in his account. The way he looked at me changed completely.

He holstered his gun, gave me a respectful nod, and tossed me a set of keys. "There's a stolen Chevy out back. Pleasure doing business, Donna."

I caught the keys. I used the iron chair to pull myself to my feet. I tore off my ruined jacket, leaving me in a thin black top.

I walked out of the auto shop. The midnight wind cut like a knife, blowing away the scent of blood.

I drove the stolen Chevy two blocks to a gas station, washed the blood from my face, and headed straight to New York’s private airfield.

2 a.m. A private tarmac at JFK.

In the pouring rain, a massive black jet bearing the Volkov double-headed eagle crest sat on the runway like a dormant beast.

At the bottom of the stairs stood two rows of armed Russian bodyguards in black trench coats.

Every one of them was Bratva elite. The kind who crawl out of graves in Siberia.

When the lead Russian captain saw me—hair a mess, palms and knees bleeding, but my back straight as a rod—he showed no contempt.

The strong only respect those who have clawed their way out of hell.

With a single, sharp click, the guards lowered their weapons and bowed their heads to me.

“Welcome, Donna.”

“The Don is waiting for you in Moscow, ma’am,” the captain said, respectfully holding out a black umbrella. “He was very pleased with the port authority contract you sent.”

I didn't speak. I took the umbrella, and in my mud-stained heels, dragging my feverish body, I walked up the stairs without looking back.

Just as I was about to step into the cabin, the communicator in my hidden pocket vibrated.

A final message from my dark-web hacker on Wall Street.

“Funds extracted. Port project has imploded. When the market opens at 9 a.m., De Luca and Caldwell will be officially bankrupt. The Feds and the IRS will be plastering seals all over their estates.”

I stood at the door of the plane and turned, looking back at the glittering, hypocritical, rotten skyline of New York City.

Julian, my darling fiancé. My loving, devoted parents.

Did you think you could throw me to the wolves and sleep soundly?

No. I’m going to hell to become its queen.

I dropped the phone into a puddle on the tarmac and stepped into the massive jet.

Tomorrow morning, the sun will rise.

And every single one of you will be on your knees. Begging for death.