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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 𝑅𝑜𝑚𝑒, 𝐼𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑦 The email hit her inbox at 4:42 pm in typical Stefania style, just late enough to ruin her day, but early enough that the boss-bitch could plausibly deny the timing was deliberate. URGENT: Change in deployment schedule: Your presence is required on-site in Ethiopia. Departure: Tomorrow morning. Details attached. Contact Stefania if you have questions. Marissa stared at the message preview, her pulse a dull, furious rhythm in her ears. Her mouse hovered over the screen as if maybe, just maybe, if she didn’t click it, this wouldn’t be real. But the bold subject line sat there, unapologetic and final, as if it had already packed her bag and printed her fricking boarding pass. She inhaled and counted breaths just like she’d seen her brother and Marco do millions of times before, pressing her fingers against her temple. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Across the room, someone laughed at something on their phone. Knowing Gianna, it was probably a meme. If she put as much effort into working during work time instead of searching for funny memes to post on social media, then she might hit her deadlines more often. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑐𝑖𝑟𝑐𝑢𝑠. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑘𝑒𝑦𝑠. The low hum of the office, the copier, a chair squeak, and the rhythmic clatter of keyboards continued like nothing had happened. Like her world hadn’t just shifted a few degrees off-center, throwing her meticulously organized vacation plans into chaos. She’d requested time off three weeks ago. She had the dang confirmation in writing, no less. Serena had already booked the winery tour. They were going to Tuscany. A weekend of soft linens, good cheese, even better wine, and long mornings with no alarms. She was supposed to forget about bureaucratic bottlenecks, donor deadlines, and the endless uphill battle of working in humanitarian logistics without losing her soul. Fucking Stefania strikes again. Serena is going to lose her shit. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑𝑢𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑡. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑦? 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑦? Someone, probably Stefania, had made this decision behind closed doors, without so much as including her in the decision-making process, as if her life were a calendar square to be rearranged at will. She closed the email and shoved away from her desk. It took more effort than it should have to force herself to stay composed as she grabbed her bag. If she didn’t leave now, she was going to say something she’d regret. Again. 𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒. By the time she got home, the Roman sky had turned the color of dried apricots, the tram was packed, and she was starving. But she was way too nauseated to even think about eating. She flung her purse onto the couch and stood in the middle of the apartment, trying to figure out how she was supposed to tell Serena that the trip they’d been organizing for the last six months was off again. “Rena is going to hate me or think I don’t want to see her.” It wasn’t her best friend that she didn’t want to see. It was the jerk who worked for Serena’s husband. ‘Mr. I can’t do this anymore.’ Marco, the rat bastard. 𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑢𝑙𝑡. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟. But in her defense, Marco Guerriero in a CONSUBIN uniform was fan your face hot, but Marco in a tuxedo was a rip your panties off and beg for relief, orgasm inducing sex god, which wouldn’t be a problem if he didn’t know it. But the rat bastard did. She poured herself some wine and glanced at the clock as she sat in her favorite spot on the couch. After a sip of wine, she dug into her purse for her phone. There was no point in putting off calling Serena. She was due to leave La Spezia in under two hours. She hit speed dial, put the phone on speaker, and lowered it to her lap. “Don’t tell me—” She winced at the disappointment in Serena’s voice. “I’m so sorry—” “What happened?” “The dragon bitch pulled my vacation to send me to Ethiopia—” “—you mean she doesn’t want to go sweat her ass off in fifty degrees Celsius heat, and fucking with your time off was a bonus she couldn’t pass up?” “Pretty much.” Marissa sipped wine. “She’s definitely doing this on purpose. This is trip number four in less than two years. When I moved into this position, the deal was for one in every two years.” “You need to start looking for something else, sister. Because she’s totally taking advantage.” “There’s nothing out there, Rena. Not in this economy.” She’d been looking since she’d been sent to Honduras at the last minute. “At this point, I’d take a summer job on the Riviera, and then figure out the rest in September.” “I can ask Re—” “No.” She cut her off. “I love that you want to ask your husband to put in a good word for me somewhere. But I can either do this myself, or I stay working at the dragon bitch’s beck and call.” “The offer is there, sister,” Serena said softly. “Use it the second you need to.” “I promise.” She could hear Serena’s daughter babbling in the background and figured a change of subject was needed. “How is my favorite heart-niece?” “She’s awesome. I’m sending you a video. Put me on hold while you watch it.” “Si.” Her phone dinged with an incoming message, and Marissa switched screens. The security footage opened, showing the courtyard at The Four X’s Compound in La Spezia. Serena’s daughter toddled in front of her uncle, one tiny finger in each of Colt’s hands. “Pap—pap—papa.” The one-year-old bounced almost to squatting, only her uncle’s grip keeping her from landing on her diapered bottom. “My papa.” “Yes, baby girl, your papa.” Serena’s husband, Remi’s, voice came from off-camera. “Have you been causing chaos in town with your Uncle Colt?” “Ceecream.” “Traitor.” Colt freed one finger to wave it at Ember. “You weren’t supposed to tell your papa about that.” “You forgot to wash her fa—whoa.” His chuckled answer cut off when Ember snatched her other finger from her uncle’s grip and glared at him in a perfect imitation of her mom when she was pissed. “You can do it, baby. You got this. Come to papa.” Marissa watched as Ember took one shaky step, and then another. By the third step, Remi squatted down and opened his arms. “You’re doing awesome, baby. Your momma is going to murder me.” Ember threw herself at him, and Remi scooped her up, hooting and cheering. “Well done, baby.” Marissa flipped back to the call with Serena. “Dio Mio, when did that happen?” “This morning. I was going to surprise you when you got to the winery.” Her friend has been lamenting that, at almost fourteen months, Ember wasn’t walking yet. “I’m sorry you missed it.” “Sister, my baby who couldn’t walk without assistance at breakfast this morning is running. Running. Remi called me, and by the time I got there, this child had found her balance and figured out her feet were for more than chewing on…” More than willing to take her mind off what tomorrow would bring, Marissa refilled her wine glass, then settled onto the couch to allow the chatting and laughter only her best friend could provide to soothe her battered nerves. When they finally ended the call, she felt so much better, and got to her feet, stretched, and took the wine glass to the kitchen. 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑚 𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔? 𝑃𝑎𝑐𝑘. 𝑅𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. Her suitcase lay half-forgotten in the closet, still dusty from the Uganda trip. The one that nearly ended up with her being kidnapped by human traffickers. Serena had met Remi on that trip, so it all worked out, and she was happy for her. That trip had also brought Marco back into her life. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑑. . She yanked her suitcase out and let it thump against the floor. She tugged the zipper and pinched her finger as the zipper got stuck near the corner. “Merda.” She shouldn’t be this frustrated for something as stupid as a zipper that stuck, but she was. She didn’t want to go on this stupid trip. She didn’t even want to go back to Africa. 𝐵𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡-𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑡 𝐼 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔. The sound of her phone vibrating on the bed jolted her out of the spiral she’d been heading down, and she flinched before she even saw the name. 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑜. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑑. Of course it was him. He always knew when she was going somewhere. She never figured out how. Maybe it was some preternatural sixth sense built into the fabric of their history. She snorted. This wasn’t Twilight, and he was no Edward Cullen or Jacob Black; it was more likely that he’d heard through the team channels—or Serena, more likely. Maybe Remi, but she figured it didn’t matter what he said. She had to go or lose her job. She couldn’t afford to lose her job. Her thumb hovered over the screen, and her breath caught as his first message blinked into existence. Midas: Ethiopia? Seriously? Alone? What the hell are you thinking? She blinked once, then twice at the message. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑎𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦. Marissa: It’s not up for discussion. Midas: You think this is just about work? Marissa: No, I think this is about you not being able to let go of something that doesn’t belong to you anymore. She hit send, and instantly wanted to snatch the words back. But the truth was already out there. He replied almost instantly. Midas: You think I ever stopped caring? 𝐹𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑜. 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢. She stared at that message until the screen dimmed, then she tossed the phone onto the bed. He no longer had a right to anything that happened in her life. Finish packing, shower, and go to bed early. If he messages again, that way you can truthfully tell him you were sleeping and didn’t see anything else he sends. Determined to ignore him, she grabbed her phone and put it on silent, then turned it face down on the bed so she wouldn’t have to see the screen light up, and got to packing her case. *** The next morning came way too early. Everything was too loud, and Marissa winced as she lifted her suitcase over the step at the front door. “I may have overpacked.” She muscled the suitcase into the elevator and made her way down to the door. The cab driver waited by the sidewalk as she checked her documents one last time. She pressed her lips together, trying not to angry-cry over nothing and everything. Her breath fogged slightly in the early morning chill. Most of Rome was still sleeping, but even so, the air smelled like coffee, pastries, damp cobblestones, and something that was uniquely Rome itself. The suitcase wheels clacked against the sidewalk as the driver loaded it into the trunk. She slid into the back seat and gave the destination in a voice that didn’t feel like hers. “Fiumicino, the airport, please.” As they pulled away from her apartment, she glanced up and sucked in a breath, because there he was. The rat bastard, Marco, stood across the street, half-shadowed by the corner café, as if he’d been carved out of the dark just for her to see him in this moment. Why on earth God graced such a sexy man with a terrible habit of being a dick was beyond her. Marco stood with his hands in his pockets. Even from this distance she could make out the cut of his jaw, and his gaze was locked on her freaking taxi. 𝐹𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑢𝑙, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑. He didn’t move. Or wave. He just looked at her, like a man watching something slip through his fingers for the second time. 𝑇𝑜𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑑, 𝑎𝑠𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ. “Stop the car.” She leaned forward. “Just—stop for a second.” The driver braked gently, eyes flicking to her in the mirror, and she looked back at Marco’s face. 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔? 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑝𝑖𝑑 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛. 𝐺𝑜. 𝐺𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑒. She thought of all the things unsaid between them. All the pain and fire and whispered promises from that night she’d let her guard down. None of which had made it past dawn. She thought of the airport. Of Stefania. Of Alvaro. Of the crushing weight of being a Ricci and the cost of hesitation. Her heart wouldn’t survive a third encounter with Midas Guerriero; no matter how much she craved him, she already knew she’d never survive losing him again. She exhaled slowly. “Drive on.” The driver hesitated, then nodded and pulled away from the curb again. As the city blurred past the windows, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She ordered herself not to cry, but her throat burned the whole way to the airport. 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 The Ethiopian sun crawled across her skin like a slow and steady heartbeat. Marissa swiped her hand across her brow and grimaced at the sweat on her fingertips. She used to love the heat. She was Italian, for heaven’s sake—the sun was practically in her DNA. But now, after three weeks in this hellhole, she absolutely hated it. She’d sweated so much her skin itched and crawled. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be clean. Her boots kicked up dry earth as she stepped onto the ridge overlooking the construction site below. Her team had worked miracles in the last few weeks, and the well project was ahead of schedule. Concrete piping was stacked to the side and gleamed brightly under the sun. A handful of local workers were hauling tools, joking in a mix of Amharic and the broken Italian they'd picked up from her. She’d taught them how to swear first, of course. It was only fair. If she was going to lose her shit at least twice a day, then the people around her should know all about it. She raised her hand to her forehead to block the glare and scanned the horizon. “Where the hell is that resupply convoy? They’re late again. What a surprise.” Late seemed to be a state of mind here, but something about this time frazzled her nerves. She sucked on the inside of her cheek and tapped the radio clipped to her belt. “Team Bravo, can you get me a status on the delivery run? We’ve got twenty-seven men waiting to start the water filtration system, and we can’t do anything until we have those flanges.” She frowned at the static filtering through her radio. If they were going to say they wouldn’t be here today, then she needed to figure out what she could give the men to do for the rest of the day. 𝑁𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝐼 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝐼𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑜 ‘𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑢𝑝 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑜,’ 𝐼’𝑚 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑑𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠. “Fifteen minutes out, Ricci. Had to reroute off a blocked road. Nothing to worry about.” Marissa hummed a noncommittal sound. ‘Nothing to worry about’ had become a catchphrase out here. She’d learned quickly that most people only said it when there was something to worry about. Still, she clicked off the comms and tried to ignore the twist in her gut. Alvaro would tell her to trust her instincts. Her older brother had a list of rules he disguised as advice. Usually, hearing his voice in her head would annoy the crap out of her. But this time she listened. 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑔𝑢𝑡𝑠, 𝑆𝑖𝑠. 𝐵𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑. Alvaro had never forgiven Marco for what happened when she’d been stupid enough to think there might be a future with her brother’s best friend. Things between them had gotten worse once Midas retired from COMSUBINs because of a choice he made with her at the center of it. Because of her stupidity, her brother had lost his best friend, she’d lost the man who’d come pretty damn close to being the love of her life, and Marco… Marco had lost everything. The sting of that reality hadn’t faded. Neither had the memory of the night she’d spent with Marco. It had been stupid to attend Gunnar and Jorja’s wedding, especially when she’d known Marco would be there. But the tenderness he’d shown her in Morocco after that horrible trip to Uganda had seduced her into the one thing she’d sworn she’d never have again when it came to that man… hope. They’d danced under string lights… along with one night under tangled sheets. Reality had slapped her right on the nose in the morning when the fairytale night turned into a fairytale curse, as she woke to an empty bed. She’d been kicking herself since, and spent the last fifteen months pretending she hadn’t memorized the shape of his mouth on her skin and pretending she didn’t still hear his voice when she closed her eyes. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝐿𝑖𝑎𝑟. “Boss.” Marissa turned at the call. One of the local drivers, Fikir, waved her over from the edge of the trail. “We got eyes on a truck coming in, but it’s not ours.” Her stomach dropped. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡. “Radio it in,” she ordered immediately, already jogging downhill. “Get the workers clear of the ridge. Now.” She reached for her sidearm, a compact 9mm she kept holstered even on “peaceful” days, and a coil of tension slithered down her back like an old friend. Alvaro would lose his ever-loving mind if he saw her armed, and doubly so because things were going to get hairy in the next few minutes. But she’d sell her soul to have her big brother standing right next to her for the rest of the day. She’d even take his overbearing, snarky comments and not whack him over the head with a frying pan. By the time she could see the approaching dust cloud, two things slammed into her: it was way too big for just one vehicle, and it was coming way too fast to be their supply convoy. She tramped down on the memory of Uganda and the terror of crouching in the dark behind a store counter, waiting for someone to rescue her. She couldn’t afford to panic. Panic was for people who didn’t know how the world really worked. She’d been schooled on that too many times to count. She clicked on her radio and called in her position, then checked to see if there was any possibility of running. The scrub brush stretched behind her. If I run down there, I’ll be seen. There is nothing to use for cover. Not even a pebble, and my more than generous butt, fabulous as it is, is not going to fit under a pebble. Two years ago, she would have frozen and waited for someone else to take the lead. Now? She was the lead. “Ricci.” The voice in her earpiece was tight. “Vehicles approaching your location, unmarked. No response on comms. Could be nothing. Could be—” The comms cut out. The first bullet didn't sound like a bullet. It sounded like a pop or a snap. A warning ripped straight from the mouth of hell. She dove, hard, into the dirt, and bit back a yelp of pain when her shoulder slammed into the hard clay. Bullets tore through the air above her head, and dust exploded around her. She wrapped her hands over her head and kept her face pressed into the dirt until the bullets turned in a different direction. She crawled, dragging herself belly-first toward the shallow depression behind the generator shed. Marissa flattened out, trying to make herself as small as possible. Her chest heaved. Surely they could hear how the air sawed in and out of her lungs? Her sidearm dug into her hip, but she didn’t reach for it. Against automatic weapons, her 9mm was about as useful as a chocolate teapot was for tea. In her peripheral vision, she spotted a blur of movement. 𝑂ℎ 𝐺𝑜𝑑. 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛. 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛. She covered her mouth with both hands to stop her internal screaming at two of the younger workers trying to escape by sprinting for the tree line. There was another short burst of gunfire, and the workers fell, their escape stopped in its tracks, and her stomach turned to ice. 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛. 𝐷𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒. 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑙𝑦. This time it wasn’t Alvaro’s voice she heard in her head… it was Marco’s. 𝐷𝑖𝑜, 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑒. Through the gap under the shed’s edge, she could just barely see the camp. It was being ripped apart, quickly and viciously. A black jeep fishtailed into camp and skidded to a halt, kicking up clouds of dust. More armed men jumped down, shouting commands in a language she didn’t recognize, their movements ruthless and efficient. They fanned out, some looting crates, others smashing through the comms tent with the butts of their rifles. The satellite dish snapped like a twig. A scream cut through the air, one of her people was calling for help. Then, a second one, this voice sounding younger and a lot more terrified. Marissa bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood. Her fists clenched against the dirt. 𝐷𝑜 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐷𝑜 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. But she couldn’t. There was no cover, no plan, and no chance of stopping them without dying in the first five seconds. All she could do was stay hidden and pray they didn’t sweep the ridge. Every muscle locked with the effort of stillness, she willed herself invisible as boots thundered past just meters from her head. She could hear them tearing through the main tents, and she clenched her teeth against the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound of fabric ripping and equipment crashing to the ground. One of assholes laughed, a cruel, triumphant sound that made her skin crawl. She jerked in spite of her resolve to stay still when the unmistakable groan of a truck door banged on what sounded like the opposite side of the shed. Metal clanged and voices barked again. It sounded as if something heavy was being loaded… or someone. She peered through the gap and reared back when she made eye contact with someone looking through from the other side. 𝑆ℎ𝑖𝑡. 𝑆ℎ𝑖𝑡. 𝑆ℎ𝑖𝑡. Her breath caught in her throat as she scrambled to her feet. He’d seen her. He knew she was there. She crouched as low as she dared, her eyes darting to the path behind the supply shed she’d used for cover. If she could get to the back trench, she might be able to crawl far enough to loop behind the hills and escape. She unclipped her sidearm and pulled it out of the holster. Her feet moved before her mind caught up with what was about to happen, and she bolted across the dirt yard, low and fast, with the weapon gripped tightly in her hand. A shot clipped the ground beside her, flinging dust up into her face. She coughed, dropped to her knees, and skidded across the rock and grit, with her arms up to protect her face. Pain tore down her forearm, but she pushed it aside and got herself onto her hands and knees. She rolled over the edge of the trench closest to her. With her belly to the earth, and her teeth gritted against the sting of her skin tearing open, she kept crawling. Dust and blood mixed beneath her. The copper scent was so sharp it made her gag. 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑜, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒. 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒. 𝑁𝑜. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑤. 𝐷𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝐻𝑒’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡. She choked back a sob. She couldn’t afford to think of Marco. Not now. She reached the back of the trench, where the cover was thicker, and crouched beneath the broken concrete slab they used for foundation work. The angle gave her just enough view of the camp and the dirt road. One of the workers was running toward the far tree line, but he wasn’t going to make it. The gunman raised his rifle, and she didn’t think; she reacted just like Alvaro and Marco had taught her. One breath, one aim, one shot, and the gunman dropped. Marissa stared at the body for longer than she should have before she ducked back down into cover. Her hands shook as she lowered the weapon. She gagged softly on the bile that rose up her throat. She’d never had to kill anyone before. Never. 𝐺𝑜𝑑, ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒? 𝐴 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒. 𝐼’𝑚 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑙. 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑝. 𝑁𝑜𝑤. 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑝. She forced back the panic, tore a strip of fabric from her shirt, and tied it around her bleeding arm. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘. 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜? 𝐵𝑎𝑠𝑒. 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑒. She tugged the comms radio clear of her belt and raised it to her mouth. “Ricci to base—hostile contact. Camp ambushed at Sector Echo-5. I repeat, Echo-5. One enemy down. Request immediate evac or long-range cover. Sending coordinates now.” The comms hissed, but nobody responded. “Cazzo.” She hissed the curse in Italian, shoved the radio back onto its clip on her belt, and braced herself against the slab. They’d either heard her or they hadn’t. But for now, she had to consider herself alone. 𝐹𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑠, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑠. 𝑁𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑑𝑜? 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑 Midas hadn’t spoken to another human being in six days. Unless you counted the old woman two ridges over who looked after his mini goat, Bubbles, when he was on a job. He planned to continue to ignore that she was more than a little convinced that he was cursed because he never smiled, which was fair. He hadn’t had a reason to smile since Marissa had left for Africa, Talon almost lost his goddamn mind because his woman nearly got killed, and under pressure from NATO, Gunnar had handed down a grounding order like a judge with a grudge. So yeah. Cursed might be generous this past week. The Dolomites were a frozen cathedral of silence and snow, the perfect location to worship at the altar of guilt and rage—the two things he struggled most with since the damn op that ended his career in Italian Special Forces. The fucking op where Marissa’s bother nearly got killed, and he’d taken the fall for the fuck up. This time, he was supposed to be laying low, keeping the heat off The Four X’s while NATO and the Carabinieri pored over the wreckage of the unsanctioned op to save Petra. But laying low didn’t come easy when your skin itched for movement and your hands itched for someone… her. Midas stood in the doorway of his cabin, a mug of bitter coffee going cold in his palm, watching the goat headbutt a snowdrift like it owed her money. As if she felt his scrutiny, Bubbles bleated, judging him as usual, then moved onto the next drift. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t exactly fun company this morning. Inside, his burner phone chimed once. His spine snapped straight before he even processed it. He crossed the room in two strides, snagged the device from the counter, and swiped it open. “Zipper. This better not be a social call.” “It’s not.” Remi McKinley’s voice was clipped and cold enough to send a fission of ice down Midas’s spine. “A convoy in the Awash corridor was hit last night. Gunfire, retreat pattern. Two injured, one unaccounted for.” Shit. He’s not telling me this just for shits and giggles. Ice slithered down his back, and his brain wanted to connect the dots, but his heart refused to let him. There were only two reasons Remi would be giving him this information. One, he was to gear up to deploy, which couldn’t happen as he was grounded until the Italian and Swiss authorities had completed their investigation into the shit show of saving Talon’s woman, Petra, a few weeks ago. The other reason didn’t bear thinking about. “Contractors?” “I’m sending a file to your email.” 𝐹𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠. Midas narrowed his eyes when Remi didn’t answer the question. In his world, that was answer enough. He flipped open the laptop on the coffee table and typed in the password with one hand. His stomach clenched as he opened the folder attached to the email. The first page wasn’t a map as he’d come to expect from Remi files. Zipper was nothing if not predictable when it came to files and organization. It also wasn’t a schematic or even a threat profile, all of which would be logical in the world of special operations. Instead, it was a photo of Marissa. The time stamp in the photo said it had been taken about two months ago. His heart did a weird ta-thump thing as he took in every feature of her smiling face. Her hair was windswept, and she had a bandana tied loosely at her neck. He recognized that look in her eyes—the one that said, ‘I’m not afraid of shit anymore.’ The floor felt like it dropped out from under him as he stared at it. His heart stopped, then pounded back to life with a vengeance. “Tell me.” “We don’t know yet. Group’s not confirmed. It could be spillover from the Sudanese corridor. Could be mercs, or it could be someone pissed about humanitarian interference…” As he listened to Remi give him the report, Midas went to the drink cabinet, poured himself a shot of Grappa, and threw it back. He relished the burn as it went down, and the fire that lit in his stomach. Maybe the alcohol would burn off the rage he could feel building. Midas unclenched the hand not holding the glass, one finger at a time. “What’s the extraction protocol?” “There isn’t one.” He could hear the wince in Remi’s voice. “Talon, Levi, Colt—all downrange, three days dark minimum.” 𝐹𝑢𝑐𝑘. “And Dory?” Midas slammed the door shut on the rage that dragged a bellow up the back of his throat. “When are we going for her?” He sat on the arm of the couch. Maybe if he pretended he was calm and blasé about it, he could manifest that shit into life. He’d go for her alone if he had to, but it would be a hell of a lot easier with The Four X’s group’s resources behind him. “You’re grounded. This call is pure—” “No.” Even he could hear how low and dangerous his voice was as he cut him off. “I don’t care what status I’m under. I’m going. I don’t need backup. I need a plane.” “This isn't a personal retrieval.” “The hell it isn’t.” He glared at the phone. “Are you going to tell your wife that you left her best friend out there alone? “You swore you were done chasing ghosts.” His throat tightened, and he swallowed past the lump before he ground out, “She’s not a ghost. She’s—” 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. He didn’t say it out loud. The word was locked in his throat and refused to emerge through his lips. But it didn’t matter. Remi knew. Hell, they all knew. They’d seen what he was like after the wedding. The way he’d thrown himself into quiet operations, staying just far enough off-grid to avoid feeling too much. The way he hadn’t looked at another woman since they’d known him. “I figured you’d say that.” Remi sighed. “I’m looping you in an ops chain.” Midas’s phone dinged before Remi finished speaking. “One sec.” He put him on hold and opened the message chain. Zipper: Bk Op. Non/San. Status: Critical. HVT- fm level oh- ITM-op. ETA – 12. EM0458 𝐵𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑂𝑝𝑠. 𝑁𝑜𝑛-𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑑. 𝐶𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎 ℎ𝑖𝑔ℎ-𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝐼𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝑀-𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟. 𝐸𝑇𝐴 𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 12 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 0458. Relief swept through him hard enough that he was willing to ignore the speculation of what Marissa was to him. “Thanks, Zipper.” Dory: On it. “You’ve got 48 hours. Solo recon only. Eyes-on. No unnecessary engagement.” 𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑒, 𝐵𝑜𝑠𝑠. 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟. “Unless someone’s got her.” Remi didn’t argue, probably because he already knew that if someone did have Marissa, there wasn’t a force on earth that was going to stop him from getting her back. Midas was already moving. The mug clattered to the floor, cold coffee splashing across the wood. He yanked the trapdoor under the rug open and dragged out the go-bag he wasn’t supposed to need. False passports, sidearms, and a note Bubbles had once tried to eat. “I’m on my way,” he said, already pulling on his jacket. “You’re still hot with the Italians, and the Swiss flagged your last alias.” “Then burn a new one,” he growled. “Tell Dory I’ll be wheels down in Agadir in eight.” “Commercial only,” Remi reminded him. “Military is too visible. I’ll book you a flight out of Bolzano or Milan and send the ticket to your phone.” He put the weapons back into the safe. “I’ll sit in economy with screaming kids if I have to. Just get me Dory and I’ll figure shit out from there.” After a beat of silence, Remi muttered, “We can keep you out of jail and send Mojo…?” 𝐹𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑛𝑜. 𝑁𝑜, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑜𝑛’𝑡. “Hell no.” He shoved the last mag into his vest and locked the cabin behind him. He paused to throw his go-bag into the back of the car. “Thanks, Zipper.” “You’re a fucking idiot if you thought we’d leave your ass swinging in the breeze,” Remi said mildly. “Or hers.” “Roger that.” A thought struck him, and he winced. “Does Alvaro know?” Marissa’s brother would lose his freaking mind. As he wasn’t handling the situation himself, he could already guess the answer to the question. “His command sent me that,” Remi replied. “Alvaro and his team are also downrange and are scheduled to be dark for another couple of days. But his p-file apparently says that if something happens to his family, you are to be informed.” 𝐹𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑔𝑢𝑡𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟. “Of course, he did.” He jogged back up the steps of the cabin, made sure the door was locked, and hit the remote to set the alarms. “I’m Oscar Mike.” “Roger that, ticket is my next message.” He didn’t bother answering and hit end on the call. He paused next to the driver’s door and scanned the ridge until his gaze landed on Bubbles as she watched him from near a massive tree. “I’ll be back,” he yelled. “Go to Francesca.” She turned and trotted away without looking. “I’m coming for you, Amore Mio. I’m coming for you.” *** By the time the wheels of the plane squealed against the tarmac in Agadir, Midas’s jaw ached from the hours he’d spent grinding it. He hadn’t been able to sleep—not with that photo of Marissa etched into the back of his eyes like a scar he couldn’t scrub clean. The hostess handed him the tourist visa paperwork before they even taxied to the gate. “Local policy,” she chirped, like he gave a shit. His hands moved automatically as he block printed his fake civilian ID details and his destination: “Leisure and Wildlife Tour.” The only wildlife he planned on seeing was the assholes who had fucked up on an epic scale by taking the one thing he cared about above all others. Marissa. He deplaned through the civilian terminal, doing his best to blend in despite the tattoos that ran like battle ribbons down his arms and chest. He tugged the bill of his ball cap lower to cover the tension in his brow. Unable to turn off his operator training, he scanned the airport, counting exits and profiling faces as he made his way to the exit. Mojo was waiting at the kiss-n-ride in an unmarked SUV, one arm out the window like this was just another Wednesday. “Looking like a bad day for someone.” “That’s the plan.” Midas slid into the passenger seat, took the black nylon pouch Mojo handed him, and unzipped it. He pulled out the H&K USP Compact .45 caliber with a threaded barrel, as was his preference. “One in the pipe. Three mags?” “Yup.” Mojo nodded. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as they pulled into traffic. “Figured you’d feel naked after spending a few hours without being armed.” “Preach it.” Midas checked the slide and secured the holster to his waistband with that casual competence that would have made lesser men nervous. He knew better than to talk to Mojo until they hit the secure gates of the Agadir compound and swept down into the hidden garage entrance. Dory’s second in command was funny as fuck, except when he was driving. Then Mojo turned into a tight-lipped bastard with an unhealthy dose of road rage. The moment the biometric lock cycled to open, Midas was out of the SUV. He strode toward the gear cages. The extra stop for finding Marissa pissed him off, but considering the scrutiny they were under, he was grateful for the backup the McKinley brothers were giving him. The layout was familiar to their home base at La Spezia. Stone walls, steel reinforcements, and cages lining every wall. It smelled like cordite and Moroccan coffee. Home, in its own fucked up way. Dory was waiting, leaning against the table in the center of the room, with Midas’s custom loadout staged down the length of the table with loving precision. “Your M4’s clean, zeroed, and lubed.” Dory folded his arms across his chest. “We’ve got GPS uplinks on your wrist comms, and a bunch of extra batts in the left thigh pouch. NVGs, MREs, satellite ping receiver, wrist computer, all the usual shit is loaded.” “Thanks.” Midas started double-checking everything. While he trusted Commadore Petrusek as much as he trusted any man, he still preferred to verify every piece of gear himself. He picked up the M4, checked it, and pointed it at the pock-marked wall. “Anything important behind there?” “Nope.” Dory grabbed a ladderback chair and straddled it backward. “That’s six feet of solid concrete for what you’re doing.” “Perfetto.” Midas pulled the trigger. The weapon acted as it should, and he placed it back on the table to check both the ACOG scope and the suppressor. He removed the HKM23 from his holster, cleared the pipe, and took another shot at the wall before reloading. “You have BDUs for me?” “Yup, in the locker there.” Dory jerked his chin toward the floor-to-ceiling metal box on the opposite side of the table. “I grabbed all the shit you left here on your last go-round. It’s in there, too.” “Grazie mille.” “Welcome.” He made fast work of stripping to his boxers and pulling on the standard Four X’s Group mission uniform before going back to the table. “You’re being suspiciously quiet.” “I was imagining if it was Kane who was missing. I’d not only be a fucking mess, but I wouldn’t want anyone blowing smoke up my rear end either.” Dory waved a hand toward the gear-table. “I figured I’d just sit my ass here until you’re done in case we missed anything on there.” Every piece of gear he strapped on, every mag he loaded, every knife he slid into a sheath, he checked—each one another layer between him and the fear chewing through his gut. He snagged a gear bag and went through a mental count in his head as he placed every item into it. Three flash bangs. Four radios—two encrypted, two backups. A dozen M4 mags. He scratched the side of his neck and blew out a breath. “You want some more of those?” Dory climbed off the chair. “Yeah. Please.” “You got it.” Dory moved from the table to a door on the right. He scanned his hand to open the lock. “How many do you want?” “Six, or seven.” Dory came back and dropped the magazines on the table in front of him. “Thanks.” Midas secured the NVGs with a flip-down mount onto a helmet rig, then removed them to fit both into the ruck. He added a compact notepad and two Sharpies—one for notes, one for marking bodies if it came to that. 𝐴𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. He stuffed the wrist-mounted GPS nav computer on top, then added spare batteries anywhere they would fit. His vest, his pack, his pockets—if there was an iota of space, it filled it with a battery. By the time he was done, he looked like a walking armory. Mojo walked in and whistled. “Jesus, man. You expecting to fight a battalion?” “No.” Midas clipped the vest on and slung the ruck over his right shoulder. “Just making sure I get her back.” Dory stood to tug on the straps behind him, making sure everything was firmly attached in place. “You’re eating before you leave.” “I’m not hungry.” Eating would slow him down and cost him more time. Time Marissa might not have. Dory ignored his growl. “Don’t care. You’ll eat now, or you’ll puke halfway to the LZ because your stomach’s eating itself. Kane made you something. You’ll eat it, or you’ll answer to me.” Midas blew out a frustrated breath. “You mean if I don’t, you’ll get in shit with your man, and you don’t want that happening?” “Pretty much.” Dory led the way to the elevator and waved him in ahead of him. “I like sex. Kane threatened to hold out if I didn’t bring you up to eat. You’re eating, period.” “You’re whipped, man.” “Yes, yes I am, and I fucking love it.” Dory stepped out of the elevator. “Now get your ass in the dining room, and be fucking pleasant to my guy or I’ll take back every fucking piece of gear I just gave you.” Damn it. “There you are.” Kane jumped out of the chair he was sitting in. “I’ve got comfort food for you.” He shoved a bowl into Midas’s hands before he could argue. Ah fuck, the smell was simple, warm, and grounding. It hit him harder than he expected—pasta with butter and cheese. “I called your mama.” Kane’s inked arm reached up, and he rubbed one finger over the scar that ran through his eyebrow. “She said that’s the only thing that’ll sit right when you’re this wound up.” “Thanks.” He ate fast. “Did my mama ask why I need comfort food?” “Nope, just to call her when you get back.” Kane dropped a folded napkin beside the bowl. “You will call her.” Midas nodded once. His mama was not one to mess with. “I will,” he promised. Kane filled a glass with water from the pitcher. “Good, don’t make a liar out of me, Midas, or piss me off. Because you won’t like the results.” “I’m not that stupid.” He liked Dory’s wiry partner. Kane Morgan, with his sleeves full of ink and a face full of scars, looked about as far from a Susy homemaker as you could get. But Midas could tell you that anyone who didn’t see the care this man put into the people who worked for Dory was either blind or stupid. He was neither. “Thanks, Kane, I appreciate this.” He popped the last forkful of food into his mouth. Kane took the plate from him. “Go kick ass and get your girl.” “That’s the plan, brother, that’s the plan.” He got to his feet and strode out of the dining room. Ten minutes later, he was strapped into the seat next to Mojo, with a team of guys and their K9, Felon, scattered around The Four X’s private plane. Their destination was a black site halfway between Djibouti and Awash. From there, they would jump on a helicopter to continue to Ethiopia and Marissa. Midas’s fingers moved restlessly as he rechecked his gear, flipped through his notes, and tapped the pen against the knee of his combat pants. He was ready for blood, for firefights, for hell if that’s what it took, because Marissa was out there, and God help anyone who thought they could keep her. Because she was coming home with him. Period.