Chapter 14 - The Rescue Operation
St. Petersburg was a frozen wasteland. The wind coming off the Baltic Sea was like a physical blade, slicing through the heavy tactical parka Evelyn had given me.
We were crouched on the rusted catwalk of an abandoned crane, overlooking Volkov’s private shipping yard. The compound was massive, surrounded by electrified fences, guard towers, and floodlights that cut through the swirling snow. Below us, dozens of heavily armed Bratva soldiers patrolled the perimeter with attack dogs.
“He is in Warehouse 4,” Evelyn murmured through the comms piece in my ear, pointing a gloved finger toward a massive, reinforced steel building in the center of the yard. “Thermal imaging shows a single heat signature bound to a chair in the center of the room. Eight guards inside. Forty outside.”
I looked down at the matte-black Glock 19 in my hands. The weight of it was terrifying, but the thought of Ricardo bleeding out in that warehouse was infinitely worse.
“What’s the play?” a gruff voice asked. I turned to see Dante crawling onto the catwalk beside me. He was battered, his face bruised and his left arm heavily bandaged, having barely survived Salvatore’s assassination attempt and navigating his way to Evelyn’s network just hours before our flight.
“We create a distraction,” I said, my voice eerily calm despite the adrenaline flooding my system. “We hit their armory on the east side of the yard. When the guards rush to put out the fire, we breach Warehouse 4 from the roof.”
Dante grinned, a bloody, savage expression. “You’re starting to sound a lot like him, Mrs. Moretti.”
“Do it,” I commanded.
Five minutes later, the eastern side of the shipping yard erupted into a blinding ball of hellfire. The explosion shook the crane we were standing on. Sirens began to wail, a deafening, shrieking panic that pierced the frozen night.
“Go, go, go!” Dante roared.
We rappelled down the crane lines, landing silently on the snowy roof of a shipping container. Evelyn’s elite shadow squad—ghosts clad in white winter camouflage—moved with lethal precision, taking out the remaining perimeter guards with suppressed sniper fire before they even knew we were there.
We bounded across the containers until we reached the roof of Warehouse 4. Dante set the explosive breaching charges on the reinforced skylight.
Three. Two. One.
The glass shattered inward with a concussive blast. We dropped through the opening, repelling down into the cavernous, dimly lit warehouse.
Gunfire erupted instantly.
I hit the concrete floor, rolling behind a massive wooden crate as bullets chewed through the air above my head. The warehouse was a chaotic symphony of muzzle flashes and shouting. Dante and Evelyn’s squad engaged the Bratva guards in a brutal, close-quarters firefight.
I peered around the edge of the crate, my eyes scanning the room.
In the center of the warehouse, illuminated by a single, harsh overhead light, was Ricardo.
He was stripped to the waist, his arms chained above his head to a steel beam. His torso was a canvas of fresh, agonizing cuts and deep purple bruises. Blood dripped from his chin onto his chest.
Standing in front of him was Viktor Volkov, a massive, bearded man in a heavy fur coat, holding a blood-stained iron crowbar.
“You Sicilians are too stubborn for your own good,” Volkov laughed, raising the crowbar.
“Volkov!” I screamed, stepping out from behind the crate.
The Russian boss turned, his eyes widening in shock as he saw me standing there, raising my gun with both hands.
“The little nanny,” Volkov sneered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. He grabbed Ricardo by the hair, yanking his head back. “You came all this way to watch him die?”
Ricardo’s eyes fluttered open. Through the blood and the swelling, his gaze locked onto mine. “Clara,” he breathed, his voice a ragged, broken whisper. “Run.”
“I’m done running,” I said, my finger tightening on the trigger.
Volkov lunged forward, raising his weapon.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't think about the consequences. I fired.
The first shot hit Volkov in the shoulder, spinning him backward. He roared in pain, dropping the crowbar. I stepped forward, my hands completely steady now, fueled by a mother’s rage and a wife’s devotion. I fired twice more.
Volkov collapsed onto the concrete floor, his lifeless eyes staring up at the warehouse ceiling.
The remaining Bratva guards, seeing their boss fall, broke formation. Dante and the shadow squad neutralized the rest in a matter of seconds.
The warehouse fell eerily silent, save for the crackle of flames outside.
I dropped the gun and ran to the center of the room. I frantically grabbed the heavy keys from Volkov’s belt and unlocked the chains binding Ricardo’s wrists.
He collapsed forward. I caught him, bearing his massive weight, and sank to the floor with him. He was covered in blood, freezing cold, and barely conscious.
“I’ve got you,” I sobbed, pressing my face into his neck, wrapping my arms around his battered body. “I’m here, Ricardo. I’ve got you.”
Ricardo slowly lifted his heavy, trembling hand. His blood-stained fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me tight against his chest. A ragged, beautiful laugh tore from his throat.
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“My beautiful, terrifying wife,” he whispered, kissing the top of my head. “You came for me.”
“I told you,” I said, looking up into his dark, fiercely proud eyes. “I belong to you. And nobody takes what is mine.”
