Page 43 of Bound in Vengeance
There he is.
Luca.
He is standing near the edge of the grand ballroom, a predatory smile plastered on his face as he shakes hands with three heavily guarded, high-ranking members of the Kuznetsov Bratva. My blood turns to pure ice in my veins. The Russian connection. That’s what this whole play was about.
As I watch, one of the Kuznetsov men gestures toward a quiet, heavily policed corridor branching off from the main hall—away from the glare of the party. The four of them step into the shadows of the hallway, out of public view.
A dangerous thrill shoots straight through my chest. I have to follow them. I need to know exactly what they’re up to.
I turn back to Sienna. Before I can even utter a single syllable, she looks at my face and completely understands. The bratty defiance vanishes from her eyes, replaced by the sharp, quiet discipline of a girl who knows when the game becomes real. She gives me a single, firm nod.
I look up, catching Valerio’s wary eyes. "Take care of her," I order, my voice low and absolute. "Don't let her out of your sight."
Valerio nods, stepping up to take my place at her side, though his hand hovers covertly near his jacket lining.
Without another word, I slip into the crowd, melting into the shadows as I take off in the exact direction Luca and the Kuznetsovs disappeared, the hunt officially back on.
I sprint toward the hall, my leather shoes making no sound against the thick Persian rugs lining the corridor. The noise of the ballroom fades behind me, replaced by a tense, heavy silence. I don’t have to guess which room Luca and the Russians disappeared into; the six heavily armed guards stationed outside a massive set of double mahogany doors tell me everything I need to know.
When they catch sight of me approaching, their postures instantly stiffen. They stand taller, their hands shifting uniformly toward their holsters. I don't know if they recognize my face or if they just sense the threat, but my reputation precedes me in these circles. A Gallo doesn't easily blend into a crowd.
One of the guards steps forward, his chest puffed out, a hand resting on the butt of his sidearm. "You're not allowed around here, sir. Turn back."
I halt a few feet away, keeping my hands casually tucked into my trouser pockets, the picture of unbothered arrogance despite the adrenaline screaming in my veins. "And why is that?"
"There’s a private meeting going on," the guard barks, his eyes drilling into mine. "This wing is strictly off-limits to outsiders."
Outsiders.
A dangerous, white-hot annoyance heats my blood at the word. This grunt is calling me an outsider. But beneath the anger, a cold calculation settles in. If Luca has guards this unified andhostile blocking the path, it means he has gathered far more leverage and internal alliances than my intelligence network originally estimated. It’s time for me to double down.
I eye the six of them, measuring the distance. With my training, I could take down these guards and clear the hallway in less than two minutes. But I can't barge into a closed-door meeting with blood dripping from my hands. The gunfire would completely shatter the elite party outside, and Sienna is out there. Maybe for one night I can pretend to be a gentleman.
I slowly turn away from the men, giving them a cold, dismissive shrug as if I’ve lost interest.
If I'm not going to be able to eavesdrop on this meeting from the hallway, then I’ll just have to ensure the meeting doesn’t hold at all. If I can't be a fly on the wall, I’ll be the match that burns the room down.
Literally.
I make my way down a service corridor toward the back of the mansion, heading straight for the industrial kitchens. Avoiding the security cameras along the way is second nature. With my training, spotting the blind spots and tracking the lens rotations is effortless.
I slip through the double metal doors of the kitchen. The staff is operating at a frantic pace, plating hors d'oeuvres and adjusting massive trays, completely oblivious to my presence as I slide intothe rear pantry area where the heavy electrical panels and gas lines feed into the main appliances.
I know exactly what to do.
Pulling out my phone, I fire off a quick text to Valerio.
Take Sienna outside. Meet you in five.
A thumbs-up appears almost immediately. I pocket the phone and get back to work. Creating controlled chaos is the fastest way to kill a deal.
I locate a stack of heavy linens near an industrial stovetop, intentionally disrupt a main gas line valve to create a localized rush of fuel, and spark a flame. The fire catches instantly, hungry and aggressive, roaring up the fabric toward the overhead ventilation shafts.
I hurriedly leave the kitchen through the service exit, blending right back into the residential corridors. By the time I make it back to the main hall, the thick, acrid scent of burning grease is already filtering through the air vents, and the loud, high-pitched smoke alarm is blaring at a deafening rhythm through the speakers.
I step back into the grand ballroom to find absolute chaos. The classical music has cut out, replaced by nervous screams, breaking glass, and the panicked shouting of hundreds of elites.
“There’s a fire! The kitchen is going up!” someone screams from the back, and the rush toward the main exit doors instantly intensifies into a dangerous, crushing stampede. In the sudden surge of terrified bodies pushing past me, I’m thankful Sienna isn’t here.
