Chapter 37: CHAPTER 37 — POV: Matteo

The first thing I felt was heat.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind you sink into when Lilianna curls beside you at night with her cold feet and warm heartbeat.

No.

This was the kind of heat that meant blood loss, pain, and the edge of consciousness twisting itself around your throat like a noose.

The second thing I felt was movement.

Fast. Jarring. The world was swaying, rocking, vibrating beneath me as if I were lying on something that wasn’t meant to hold human weight. Something metal. Something rumbling.

A car.

No—a truck.

A cargo truck. Industrial engine. Hard suspension.

Voices bled into each other. Harsh. Russian.

Petrov’s men.

My mind surged awake like an animal kicked into fight mode.

The memories flooded back—The explosion at the safehouse. Callum’s scream. Lilianna’s eyes wide with terror. The moment I grabbed her, shoved her behind me, and the ceiling collapsed.

Then darkness.

Now this.

I tried to move my arms.

They didn’t move.

Rope. Thick. Rough. Cutting into my skin.

I forced my eyes open.

A metal ceiling blurred into focus. The sickening smell of gasoline and damp steel filled my lungs. I was lying on the floor of a cargo truck, wrists tied in front but anchored to a bolted hook in the floor. My shirt was half burned from the blast. My left shoulder throbbed like someone was carving into it with a dull knife.

But none of that mattered.

Only one thought cut through the fog.

Where is Lilianna?

I jerked upward, ripping against the restraints. Pain tore through my torso, but I didn’t stop.

A boot slammed into my ribs, knocking the breath from me.

“Easy, Costello,” a voice sneered. Russian. Thick accent. “Petrov wants you alive. Doesn’t care about the condition.”

I looked up.

Three men. Armed. One smirking at me like he’d already planned where to put bullets once Petrov gave permission.

“Where is she?” My voice was raw, cracked from smoke.

The smirking bastard crouched and patted my face like I was a dog.

“You mean your queen? Don’t worry. Petrov has big plans for her.” He grinned. “Pretty thing. Maybe he keep her alive. Maybe he doesn’t.”

I lunged, teeth bared, vision red.

They kicked me again. Hard. My body hit the metal floor with a crack.

But I didn’t stop fighting.

Because the image was carved into my skull:

Lilianna buried under rubble. Callum in her arms. Blood on her forehead. Her breathing shallow. Her voice whispering my name.

I’d dug through the debris with my bare hands before the smoke knocked me out.

And now I was here.

But she—wherever she was—she was alone.

And I would burn continents before I let that stand.

The truck hit a pothole. My head slammed back against the floor. Spots danced across my vision.

The smirking bastard turned to the others. “We stop in ten. Petrov wants him conscious when we deliver.”

“Should tie his legs tighter,” another muttered. “He fights like devil.”

Good.

Let them be afraid.

They should be.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe slow. Pain sharpened my focus. Fear fueled it.

I needed clarity. A plan. A way out.

The truck slowed.

Then stopped.

Doors unlocked.

Light sliced into the dim interior.

Cold night air rushed in.

They hauled me upright. My boots barely dragged against the ground as they pulled me from the truck, each movement a punch of agony through my spine.

I lifted my head.

We were at a shipyard. Abandoned. Rusted cranes looming like skeletons. Cargo containers stacked high, forming twisted maze-like corridors.

And in the center of the open lot… a warehouse with floodlights.

Petrov’s signature style.

Excessive. Dramatic. Exhibitionist.

They dragged me toward it.

But I wasn’t looking at the warehouse.

I was scanning everything—the shadows between containers, guard positions, the number of rifles, the distance to the docks, the fact that the water was high-tide and choppy. Every variable. Every weakness.

My father trained me for war.

But Lilianna… she taught me why I fight.

We reached the warehouse door. One guard opened it. The metal creaked like a warning.

Then I saw him.

Petrov.

His bald head gleamed under the lights. His coat hung heavy, military-style. His grin stretched wide when he saw me.

“Matteo Costello,” he boomed. “I was beginning to think you were impossible to kill.”

“Disappointed?” I rasped.

“Quite the opposite.”

He stepped forward. Hands clasped behind his back. Calm. Confident.

Too confident.

Which meant he had something he thought I couldn’t counter.

“Where is she?” I asked.

His grin widened. “Ah. So you wake thinking of her. How romantic.”

He motioned vaguely toward a staircase leading to a second-level platform.

“Bring her,” he commanded.

My pulse detonated.

Footsteps sounded overhead.

Two more men appeared.

Dragging someone between them.

My breath froze.

Lilianna.

Alive.

Her wrists bound. Her lip split. Ash in her hair. Her green eyes blazing fire even from the distance.

She was fighting them. Twisting. Kicking. Snarling like a wild thing.

They shoved her forward and she stumbled, catching herself on the railing. Her eyes snapped down to me.

Relief flashed across her face.

Then horror.

“Matteo!” Her voice cracked. “Let him go! He’s hurt—”

“Shut up,” one guard barked, grabbing her hair.

The sound I made wasn’t human.

I lunged forward, only to be slammed back by a rifle butt to the stomach.

Petrov laughed, the sound echoing like poison.

“You two,” he said, gesturing lazily, “are becoming quite the problem.”

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell the vodka on his breath.

“You took my shipments. You killed my men. You embarrassed me in my own city. And worst of all…” He grabbed my chin, forcing my head up.

“You made me look weak.”

I smiled.

Slow.

Deliberate.

“You’ve always been weak.”

He punched me.

My head snapped sideways. Blood filled my mouth.

He grabbed my hair and slammed my face into his knee. My vision blurred, but I stayed standing. Barely.

“You talk too much,” Petrov hissed.

“You bore me,” I shot back.

His eyes flared with hatred.

“Very well,” he said. “Let me show you something that will silence you.”

He snapped his fingers.

A man stepped forward, holding a phone.

Petrov took it and tapped the screen twice.

A video began playing.

I heard voices first.

A child’s voice.

Callum.

Then I saw the image.

Callum sitting on a metal chair in a dark room. His face streaked with dirt. His hands shaking. His eyes wide.

My heart stopped.

My lungs collapsed.

My knees nearly buckled.

Petrov leaned in behind me and whispered against my ear:

“I have your son.”

I stopped breathing.

Stopped thinking.

Stopped existing.

There was nothing.

No world.

No sound.

No self.

Only that image.

My boy. Terrified. In enemy hands.

And then—

Everything came back in a single violent burst.

I turned my head slowly toward Petrov, my voice razor-blade calm.

“If you touch him,” I said, “I will erase your bloodline.”

Petrov smiled like I’d complimented him.

“You’ll die before you reach him.”

“Try,” I whispered.

He motioned his men forward. “Take her upstairs. She will watch him die on the livestream.”

Lilianna screamed. “NO! PETROV, DON’T YOU TOUCH HIM—”

The guards dragged her. She kicked, bit, fought until one slammed her head against the railing. She crumpled but still clawed the floor, crawling toward me.

They dragged her away.

Petrov turned to me.

“Now,” he said. “Let us begin.”

The men stepped forward.

Rifles raised.

And then—

BOOM.

The entire wall exploded inward.

Metal shrapnel burst through the air. Floodlights shattered. Men screamed. Dust swallowed the room in a choking gray cloud.

Petrov stumbled back, swearing.

I didn’t hesitate.

I swung my bound fists upward, smashing the nearest guard’s jaw. Bone cracked. He dropped his weapon and I snatched it mid-air, using the edge of the barrel to slice the rope binding my wrists.

Another guard lunged.

I shot him point-blank.

The dust cleared enough to reveal silhouettes charging through the smoke.

Louis.

Giovanni.

My men.

And behind them—

Nico Genovese.

Lilianna’s brother.

Alive.

Armed.

And looking like God himself had sent him for vengeance.

“NOBODY touches my sister!” Nico roared, mowing down a line of Petrov’s men.

Chaos erupted—gunfire, screams, metal hitting concrete.

Smoke curled through broken windows.

I sprinted toward the stairs.

Toward Lilianna.

Toward my life.

My heart hammered one truth with each step:

Callum. I’m coming.

I reached the platform.

Lilianna was bleeding but conscious, struggling to sit up.

I dropped to my knees beside her.

Her hand shot out, gripping my shirt. “Matteo—Callum—they have him—”

“I know,” I breathed, cupping her face. “I’m getting him back.”

Her eyes filled with terror. “You can’t go alone—”

“Watch me.”

Behind us, Petrov screamed for his men to regroup.

I stood. Lifted my gun.

Looked down at the battlefield.

Looked at the man who had threatened my son.

And everything inside me sharpened into a single, lethal purpose.

War.

Tonight, I wasn’t just Matteo Costello.

I was a father.

A man with nothing left to lose.

A man who would tear the world apart to protect what was his.

I chambered a round.

Smoke swirled.

Petrov’s eyes met mine.

And for the first time—

He looked afraid.