Carmen DeLuca grew up in an abusive with her father abusing her almost every day she always wanted to be free and live a peaceful life alone far from her family only for her to be deprived from it.
Ace Russo a tall sexy ruthless Italian mafia boss w...
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The plan wasn't perfect. It wasn't even good. It was suicide wearing a crown. But it was mine.
Russia wasn't just enemy territory—it was a trap. A playground of men who knew my name, who had memorized the weight of my sins and were sharpening knives made of every mistake I'd ever made. The Bratva wasn't going to welcome me. They were going to gut me on sight.
But I was done caring.
Carmen was inside that country somewhere. And I was going to turn it into ash if I had to, just to bring her back.
Alessia lost it the second I said the word "Russia."
"You'll be dead before your boots hit snow," she snapped across the war room back at the estate. "You walk into their borders, they'll crucify you—slowly. You think they'll let you crawl out with her?"
"She's still alive," I said quietly.
Nicco didn't argue. He just looked at the map. Red pins covered half of it.
"But at what cost, Ace?" Alessia said. "You think Carmen would want you dead for her?"
I didn't answer. Because that question was built on something soft. Something that believed she still had a choice. Carmen didn't get choices anymore. They'd stripped that from her the second they laid hands on her.
Now, I'd strip everything from them.
The entry plan wasn't through Moscow. That was a death sentence. Too visible. Too expected.
We used a black-market charter route—an old Soviet airstrip buried in a forest near the border. Cash, blood, and favors opened the sky. I didn't bring soldiers. Just three men. Ghosts. Killers. Men I'd trust with Carmen's soul. Nicco came too, against Alessia's orders.
He didn't say why. He didn't have to.
Russia was gray. Cold. Soulless. The kind of place that fed on weakness.
And it reeked of her. Every alley. Every echo. My mind made ghosts out of wind and memory.
We moved like shadows—switching cars every hour, wiping every digital footprint, using old burner lines to relay intel.
It took two days to find the first lead. One of the traffickers had a girlfriend. Young. Dumb. Addicted to things she couldn't pronounce.
Nicco caught her in an underground club in Novosibirsk.
She knew Carmen. Described her like an object. "Pretty little thing. Quiet. Never fought after the first time. One of the high-priced virgins—belongs to Petrov now."
I almost put a bullet in her skull right there.
But Nicco stopped me. And then whispered, "You do that, and we lose the trail."
