Forced to Marry a Ruthless Mafia Boss

Deep beneath the pine-covered hills of the Wisconsin border, seventy-two hours later, the air inside the subterranean bunker was thick with the scent of sterile gauze, rubbing alcohol, and damp concrete.

Elena sat upright on the edge of the cot, testing her weight against the cold floor. Her ankles throbbed, but the swelling had receded. Her fingers, though still pink and tender from the frostbite ointment, could close into tight, effective fists once more.

"Your lung capacity has recovered to ninety percent," Dr. Alvarez noted, tossing a clean field dressing into a biohazard bin. "You have the constitution of an ox, Elena. Most women would have suffered severe cardiac arrest after eight hours in those sub-zero conditions."

"Pain is a familiar companion, Doctor," Elena muttered, pulling a gray thermal shirt over her head. "Where is Pedro?"

"He went to secure satellite internet through a patched receiver in the clearing above," Alvarez replied, lighting an unfiltered cigarette. "The airwaves are on fire. Damian has mobilized every associate, every corrupt precinct captain, and every hitman from Milwaukee to St. Louis. He’s tearing the state apart looking for you."

Elena scoffed, leaning back against the rough cinderblock wall. "He wants to finish the job himself. He hates leaving loose ends."

Alvarez blew a thin stream of blue smoke toward the exhaust fan, her eyes studying Elena with deep, clinical pity. "You spent six years protecting that man's life, girl. You stood between him and three rival syndicates. You took two rounds in the shoulder in an alleyway in Detroit. And you still believe he threw you into that freezer to kill you?"

Elena's eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. "You didn't see his face, Doctor. You didn't hear his voice. He believed Beatrice. He believed I killed her cat."

"Damian Kavalcante doesn't care about a damn cat," Alvarez snapped, tapping her cigarette ash into an empty tin can. "He doesn't care about Beatrice, either."

Before Elena could demand an explanation, the heavy hatch above grated against its iron frame.

Three sharp knocks, followed by two quick taps, echoed down the steel ladder. Alvarez reached for the nine-millimeter pistol resting on the counter, waiting until Pedro's haggard, mud-stained face appeared beneath the light bulb.

Pedro scrambled down the rungs, carrying a heavy, olive-drab military laptop encased in reinforced rubber. He kicked the lower latch shut and threw the manual deadbolts.

"The perimeter is clean for now," Pedro panted, dropping the computer onto the pine table. "A sweep team from the Kavalcante inner circle checked the ranger station four miles south an hour ago. We have perhaps eight hours before their thermal drones expand their search radius to this quadrant."

Elena walked over to the table. "You brought a terminal. Let me see the flight schedules for Toronto."

"Forget the flight schedules, Elena," Pedro said, his voice cracking with exhaustion as he plugged an external decryption drive into the side port. "I didn't steal this machine from the communications room to buy plane tickets. Before I pulled you out of that tomb, I downloaded the classified archive from Damian’s private terminal—the drive he keeps locked inside the wall safe behind his grandfather's portrait."

"Why would you risk your life for his corporate ledgers?" Elena asked, frowning.

Pedro looked directly into her eyes, his hands trembling over the keyboard. "Because they aren't corporate ledgers, Elena. They are the truth about who you are. And why Damian has spent six years turning himself into a monster just to keep you alive."