Page 59 of His Savage Vow
Enzo nods and steps into the corner, already pulling out his phone to make calls.
Maximo turns back to me, his hand firm butgentle as he helps me to my feet. His expression softens only when he looks at me, like the war outside pauses for a breath. “Come on. I had my men bring some clothes last night. Let’s get you dressed and get home.”
Once I’m ready, Maximo guides me through the sterile corridors of the hospital. And I can’t help but notice the way he moves, utterly in control, every decision his to make, every word an order that others obey without hesitation.
The world outside is chaos, but Maximo’s hand at my back steadies me.
For the first time since my father died, I feel…safe. Even after the blood and fear of the day before, and with a target still painted across our lives, there’s a strange comfort in Maximo’s strength.
30
Maximo
The two menI had stationed outside Constance’s hospital room are now waiting by the curb when we step out into the morning sun. They have a black Escalade idling, doors already open. Lathan moves quickly to help Constance in while I slide in the other side of the vehicle, the leather creaking beneath us.
“Where to, Mr. Luciani?” the driver, Collin, asks.
“Breakfast,” I say without hesitation.
Constance makes a face, and I catch it in my peripheral. “The hospital food was awful,” she mutters. “I didn’t want to touch those limp strips of bacon or the runny eggs.”
I chuckle, since I had thought the same thing when I saw what they offered her. “Then we’ll find something better. You’re not going to do any cooking today.”
Ten minutes later, we’re sliding into a booth at a corner diner with peeling red vinyl seats and the smell of frying butter in the air. It isn’t luxurious, but the laid-back ambience puts meat ease. Constance smiles when the waitress sets down a plate of pancakes, and I know this is exactly what she needs, something normal and comforting.
Watching her lift the fork with her bandaged arm sends a slow, unwelcome burn into my chest. The image of her bleeding on the concrete keeps replaying behind my eyes, no matter how hard I try to bury it.
The guards sit a table away, keeping their heads on a swivel and watching our backs even as they work on their own plates. It’s almost peaceful at the diner, except for the fact that my phone won’t stop buzzing. Enzo keeps feeding me updates, each one dragging my eyes back to the glowing screen.
My plan worked. The plane’s grounded at Teterboro, exactly where we wanted him pinned.
Volkov has gotten spooked, just like we expected, and is trying to get out of town. The police are already on the scene.
I set my fork down and look across the table at Constance. “Do you want to see them get taken down?”
Her brow arches, cautious but curious. “You mean right now? Is that what all the commotion is on your phone?”
I nod. “We’ll have the men drive us over once you’re done eating. It’ll take the police some time to search the airplane, but hopefully Volkov is carrying enough contraband for an arrest.”
“Seeing him handcuffed would certainly go a long way to helping me feel better,” Constance agrees.
When we arrive at the airfield almost an hour later, the flashing lights of half a dozen squad cars add their own glare to a blinding midday sun. From where we stand, I see a group of half a dozen men lined up in handcuffs, their expressions stony as the police shove them toward a transport van. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
My pulse kicks up, hungry for the sight of Alexei or Kirill in chains, and furious when they’re nowhere in sight.
I scan the faces, and with a grim smile I notice my absentee chef, Francis, in the back of the line. Our eyes meet, and he pales noticeably before steadfastly looking down at his feet. He should. Betrayal is a luxury I don’t allow to live long. There’s no sign of Alexei or Kirill Volkov.
“Look there.” I point out our mole to Constance before he’s shoved into the waiting van.
“Was that Francis?” she asks as she shades her eyes with her hand to block out the sun.
“It certainly was,” I confirm. “It looks like he’s going to be taken to the county jail for processing. I’ll make some calls later and arrange a warm welcome for him.”
I assume Constance will ask for more specifics, but instead she raises a finger to point to a man quickly approaching our small group. It’s Terry Holden, the maintenance technician who works on my own plane and who made the call to us regarding Volkov. He’s hustling over from the hangar, wiping grease from his hands on his coveralls before sticking one out for me to shake.
“Mr. Luciani, sir,” he begins nervously. “I was able to ground the plane with a ‘maintenance issue,’ but as soon as that old Russian fellow heard there was going to be a delay, he loaded up and bolted. The pilot said that he’s supposed to call Volkov once the repairs are finished. He left those men the police have in custody to finish loading up their cargo.”
I curse under my breath. Snakes like Kirill are always hard to catch and he’s slipped the noose yet again. “He’ll happily let his men take the fall for whatever contraband the police find. Is the plane registered to Volkov directly?” I ask Terry, hoping for some angle the police could use to charge the Russian gangster.
