Page 121 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

My fingers curled tight.

"Then you kill everyone in that warehouse."

Feodor nodded.

"Now that sounds like you."

The door shut.

I looked back at the photo.

Tears had clung to the corners of Elena's eyes, but she'd kept her jaw locked, glaring forward. She'd been young and slim, but there had been a stubborn steel in her bones—more than anyone in the Rossi family.

She'd picked up my discarded painting gear in the rain. She'd held up two families' precious "respectability" all by herself.

Now she'd been tied to a chair and still hadn't begged the camera for help.

I brushed my thumb over her cheek.

The screen had been cold. No warmth at all.

Last night she'd stood in the bathroom doorway, cheeks burning, pretending nothing happened. This morning she'd drawn a line across the table between us.

No watching her.

No guards in her studio.

No "protection" traded for forgiveness.

I'd agreed.

And then my man had died in the alley outside her studio.

I still hadn't protected her.

The rage had burned so long it finally froze into a hard, clean block of ice.

"Wait for me," I told the photo.

I didn't need her permission this time.

I brought her back, even if I had to tear New York apart to do it.

I stopped the car two blocks from the Pier 8 warehouse. Feodor sat in an unmarked delivery van, reports cracking nonstop through his headset.

"Four on the north side."

"Two at the west door."

"No heat on the roof."

"River lockdown complete."

I stood in the shadows and slid my pistol into the small of my back.

"Matteo's headcount?" I asked.

"At least nine inside. Maybe more," Feodor said. "Main entrance has a jammer. East side has an old cargo door, but it is welded shut from the outside."