Chapter 12: Exit Wounds
The engine’s ragged groan settled into a choked idle as the car slid into the shadow of the warehouse. Sofia pushed off Nikolai, the sweat cooling on her skin, and adjusted the pistol tucked into the waistband of her torn dress, its metal kiss a sobering anchor to the war they had started.
The warehouse air was cold and still, heavy with the ghosts of stolen cargo and diesel fumes. Sofia’s bare feet met concrete grit, the chill seeping up through her soles as she scanned the cavernous dark. Somewhere, water dripped with a slow, maddening precision.
“You’re bleeding,” Nikolai said, his voice echoing slightly. He was already at the car’s trunk, pulling out the duffel bag of passports and cash.
She touched her lower lip, her fingers coming away with a faint, coppery smear. It was his blood, or hers, she couldn’t tell. “It’s nothing.”
He tossed a bundle of dark fabric at her—a clean sweater, jeans. “Change. We have maybe ten minutes before this place is compromised.” His own movements were efficient, stripping off his torn shirt, the muscles of his back corded and pale in the weak light.
She turned away, the silence between them now awkward and loaded. The violent heat of the car had evaporated, leaving a residue of shame and a sharper, more dangerous understanding. She dressed quickly, the soft wool of the sweater a stark contrast to the pistol’s weight she transferred to the jeans’ pocket.
“Marco bought us the head start,” Nikolai said, pulling on a fresh black turtleneck. “But he can’t hold everyone. My father’s bratva captain, Anatoly, he won’t believe a story. He’ll want proof in the form of my head.”
“And my uncle Silvio will be digging through the armory floorboards right now,” Sofia replied, her voice hollow. She leaned against the car’s warm hood. “Looking for excuses. He always wanted my father’s chair.”
A single, heavy door creaked open across the warehouse, a sliver of dirty yellow light cutting the gloom. A figure stood silhouetted, bulky and hesitant.
Nikolai’s gun was in his hand before Sofia could blink, the sound of the slide racking deafening in the stillness. He didn’t aim, just held it ready at his thigh.
“Leo?” Sofia called out, squinting. “Is that you?”
The figure shuffled forward, resolving into a young man with a kind, nervous face, his hands held up. “Miss Sofia. Mr. Marco sent me. He said you’d be here.”
“He shouldn’t have,” Nikolai stated, his eyes scanning the darkness behind Leo.
“He said you’d say that.” Leo swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “He said to give you this.” He extended a burner phone, its plastic shell cheap and black. “And to tell you the dogs didn’t run. They were put down at the gate. Someone else is giving orders now.”
Sofia took the phone, its lightness feeling like a verdict. “Who?”
“Don’t know. But the shots in the armory? They’re calling it a hit. A double assassination.” Leo’s eyes darted to Nikolai, then back to her, full of a pity that made her skin crawl. “They’re saying it was you two. Together.”
The words landed between them, a truth dressed as a lie. Nikolai’s expression didn’t change, but the line of his jaw tightened. “Of course they are. It’s cleaner.”
“What else, Leo?” Sofia pressed, stepping closer. She could smell his fear, sour and human.
“They found Enzo’s body, Sofia.” Leo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “In the old well. They’re saying it was Volkov business. A message.”
The air left Sofia’s lungs. Enzo. Her driver, her friend since childhood, who’d taught her to drive stick on these very back roads. Missing for a week. She had begged her father to look. Now she knew why he hadn’t. A cold, crystalline hatred, sharper than any grief, settled in her chest. She looked at Nikolai.
“Did you know?”
He met her gaze, unflinching. “I suspected. It was my father’s style. A warning to yours about the marriage terms.” He paused. “I am sorry.”
The apology was a clinical assessment, not a condolence. It was enough. Sofia turned back to Leo. “You need to go. You never saw us.”
Leo nodded, already backing away into the slice of light. “There’s a bike around the corner. Keys are in the phone bag. Go south toward the coast.” He hesitated, his voice cracking. “They’re all lying, Sofia. Everyone left.”
Then he was gone, the door thudding shut, leaving them in a deeper darkness.
The burner phone vibrated in Sofia’s hand once, a single text from an unknown number lighting the screen: APB issued for both. Assets frozen. 30 min.
It was Marco’s final gift.
Nikolai was already moving, slamming the trunk, shoving the duffel into a smaller backpack. “The bike. Now.”
“Where?” Sofia asked, following him toward a side entrance, the reality of being hunted by both their families finally stripping away the last shock.
“Away from here.” He pushed the door open to a narrow alley, the morning light grey and unforgiving. The motorcycle was a sleek, stolen monster, chrome gleaming dully. “We find a hole. We disappear. We plan.”
He threw a leg over the bike, the engine coughing to life with a raw, aggressive snarl. Sofia climbed on behind him, her arms instinctively wrapping around his torso, the memory of their previous closeness now a tactical necessity. The heat of him through the wool was infuriatingly familiar.
“And then?” she shouted over the engine’s growl.
He twisted the throttle, the bike leaping forward into the alley’s mouth. He didn’t answer her directly, his voice thrown back over his shoulder as they burst onto the deserted industrial road, the wind stealing his words.
“Then we burn everything that’s left.”