The following day, I take a taxi to an isolated corner of California, my heart heavy with the knowledge that this may be my last chance to see Stefano before my flight. I'm on my way to see him because I lost my documents after my little breakdown the other night in the elevator. Luckily for me, they were given to Stefano, but he never returned them to me till today. The memory of his disappointment when I told him I was leaving still lingers, a dull ache in my chest. But he didn't fight me, didn't beg me to stay once I explained the reason behind my departure.

And then there's Ivan, surprising me with a text last night about meeting up again today. His nonchalance about Stefano surprised me - clearly, he doesn't see him as a threat. It makes me question the true nature of my relationship with Stefano. Is his possessiveness simply that of an overprotective brother? The thought sits like a stone in my stomach. I want to be anything but a sister to him.

The taxi driver's announcement of our arrival at the abandoned factory pulls me from my thoughts. I gaze out the window at the decrepit building looming before me, its crumbling facade and shattered windows a stark contrast to the golden California hills surrounding it.

I step out onto the gravel, the crunch of rocks beneath my feet the only sound in the eerie stillness. Stefano's secretary stands beside his car, a stark contrast to the desolate surroundings. She approaches me, documents in hand, her steps echoing in the silence.

"Mr. Costanzo asked me to give you these," she says, her voice devoid of emotion as she hands me the papers.

"Where is he?" I ask, craning my neck to peer inside the building, desperate for a glimpse of him. But there's nothing, just an empty void that mirrors the growing hollowness in my heart.

"He's busy," comes her curt reply, the words like a knife to my already wounded soul.

"Okay, thank you," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper as I take the documents from her hand. I turn back to my taxi, each step heavier than the last. Sadness engulfs me, a suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. I had hoped, foolishly perhaps, to see him one last time, to memorize every detail of his face, to carry a piece of him with me.

"Wait," the secretary calls out, and a flicker of hope sparks in my heart, a smile spreading across my face. But as I turn back, the words that fall from her lips are not the ones I long to hear. "Mr. Costanzo has also requested Samuel drive you to the airport."

A hulking figure emerges from the abandoned building, and my shoulders slump in defeat. Usually, I would firmly demand that Stefano accompany me himself, insisting on his presence despite any inconvenience, all to selfishly savor a few more precious moments in his captivating aura. But time is not on my side, and I cannot afford to waste it bickering.

I had wanted to see him, to feel his presence one last time, but it seems fate has other plans. Perhaps it's for the best, a clean break to heal the cracks in my heart.

Samuel helps me with my bags, transferring them from the taxi to Stefano's sleek black Mercedes Benz G-Class. I pay the driver, my movements mechanical, my mind a thousand miles away. As we pull away, I turn back, my eyes searching the abandoned building, a desperate plea for Stefano to appear, to give me one last glimpse of his face. But he doesn't come, and as the building fades from view, the sadness in my chest intensifies, a gaping wound that refuses to heal.

On our way, we change our route twice due to sudden road blocks. As we're pulling back to try a different path, a car suddenly appears behind us. Weird! I glance ahead, only to see another vehicle blocking our way, trapping us between them. A chill runs down my spine –something isn't right.

"Samuel, get us the hell out of here!" I exclaim, my heart beginning to pound against my ribs.

"I'm on it, Ma'am," Samuel replies, shifting the car into reverse. But before he can move, a scream tears from my throat.

"Get down!" I shout, catching sight of a gun being drawn from the car in front of us. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the sound of shattering glass. Instead, the deafening rain of bullets fills my ears. Cautiously, I open my eyes, realizing that the bullets haven't penetrated the glass.

"The car is bulletproof, Ma'am. Still, please stay down until I get us out of here," Samuel instructs, taking a sharp left into the surrounding abandoned area. But our troubles are far from over. The cars pursue us relentlessly.

With trembling hands, I frantically type out a message to Stefano, desperate to inform him of the unfolding situation. The deafening cracks of gunfire ring out repeatedly, our attackers seizing every opportunity to riddle our vehicle with bullets. Each thunderous impact causes my heart to skip a beat, but I force myself to remember the bulletproof glass – a fragile barrier standing between us and certain death. The adrenaline courses through my veins as I try to maintain my composure amidst the chaos.

"Stefano is coming, and everything is going to be okay," I whisper to myself, a mantra to calm my nerves. With each passing moment, I pray dearly that I am not wrong, clinging to the hope that Stefano will truly come to my rescue on time.

***

STEFANO

I move back into the makeshift warehouse for my family's mafia, my heart heavy as my car disappears from view. I couldn't bring myself to step out and see her, knowing that if I did, I might not have the strength to let her go. She needed to leave, not just to be with her grandmother, but because it's what's best for both of us. The memory of that dinner the other night still haunts me – the way I lost control when I found out she was going on a date with some fool. I shouldn't have reacted that way, and it's a stark reminder of why her leaving is the right thing to do.

As I enter the makeshift torture room, my gaze falls upon the man I had beaten to the brink of death. This was also one of the reasons I couldn't face Andrea; blood coats my face and my neck and splatters across the once-pristine white of my dress shirt, a grotesque canvas of the violence I had unleashed.

I approach the man, his head lolling forward as he sits strapped to the chair, crimson droplets falling from his split lips. He's one of the idiots who dared to shoot at me and the diner. As I fix my gaze on him, memories flood my mind. I recall the haunting echoes of his agonized screams earlier and the piercing desperation in his pleas—the warmth of his blood against my skin. I close my eyes, allowing myself to drift back to that instant when adrenaline surged through my veins and a twisted sense of pleasure gripped me in its embrace.

I pull my eyes open and slap his cheeks, a deceptively gentle touch, knowing that any more force could send him hurtling into the abyss of death.

"The name," I demand; my patience wore thin after an hour of this dance, broken only by the stolen glimpse of Andrea as she left.

"Irina Petrova," he rasps, the name falling from his bloodied lips like a final prayer.

"You see, that wasn't so hard," I say, my hand moving behind my back, fingers curling around the familiar grip of my gun. "Now you can die in peace." I pull the trigger, my eyes closing as his blood paints my skin in a warm, visceral spray.

Opening my eyes, I retrieve my phone from my pocket, sending the name to my tech guy. In mere seconds, a wealth of information floods my screen – details about the person behind the name I had just extracted.

"She's a distant relative to the former gang leader, 26 years old, not married, she lives in America, to be precise, Miami." The message is accompanied by a picture, putting a face to the name.

"How close was she with people from the Kazan gang?" I inquire, my fingers flying across the screen as I exit the room, my men dragging the lifeless body away.

"From all the information I have found, she doesn't even know she is related to the former leader of the gang," comes the reply, a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit.

"Alright, where is she right now?" I press, my mind racing with possibilities.

"She is currently visiting a friend in Italy."

"Send me all her travel details. I want to know where she is staying and who she intends to meet. I want to know everything you can get," I demand, stepping out of the building, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat of blood on my skin. I wait impatiently for one of my men to arrive with a new car from the apartment. I will change and shower when I get back.

"Okay, sir," he responds, and I move to unlock my screen when a new message appears, the words stealing the breath from my lungs. Andrea's in trouble. In that moment, my new car arrives, and I waste no time snatching the keys from the driver and peeling out, my heart pounding against my ribs.

In the car, I hastily call my tech guy, demanding Andrea's location. I try her number the second the call ends, but she doesn't answer. Fear claws at my chest, a desperate prayer echoing in my mind – she has to be fine, she must be. I press down on the accelerator, the engine roaring as I race against time, against the sickening dread that threatens to consume me. Hold on, Andrea. I'm coming for you.