Chapter 6 - Scorched Earth
The safe house wasn't a dilapidated cabin in the woods. It was a brutalist, multi-million-dollar concrete fortress suspended on a cliff edge overlooking the stormy Atlantic. The drive from the subway tunnels had been executed with military precision—three car swaps, a burner phone destroyed, and complete, suffocating silence from the man sitting beside Mave.
When they finally stepped into the stark, hyper-modern living room of the safe house, the storm outside was raging, lightning illuminating the floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass.
Rowan shed his ruined tuxedo jacket, tossing it onto a minimalist leather sofa. His white dress shirt was stained with concrete dust and a terrifying amount of crimson blood. Mave’s breath hitched.
"You're bleeding," she said, her voice shaking as she pointed to a dark red bloom spreading across his left ribcage.
Rowan glanced down, his expression completely indifferent. "A piece of shrapnel from the chandelier. It missed the lung. Elias will patch it up when he finishes securing the perimeter."
"Are you insane?" Mave marched toward him, the tattered hem of her emerald gown dragging on the polished concrete. She didn't know where the surge of adrenaline was coming from—maybe it was the sheer absurdity of surviving an assassination attempt, or maybe she was just tired of powerful men acting like they were invincible. "You're bleeding out on a very expensive rug. Sit down."
Rowan froze. He looked at her, his dark eyes narrowing in a dangerous, assessing glare. For a terrifying second, Mave thought he might strike her for giving him an order. Instead, a low, gravelly chuckle vibrated in his chest.
"Careful, Mave," he murmured, unbuttoning his blood-soaked shirt. "You're starting to sound like a wife."
He sat on the edge of the glass coffee table, completely unfazed as Mave rushed to the adjacent kitchen, tearing open sleek cabinets until she found a first-aid kit that looked like it belonged in a trauma ward.
When she returned, Rowan had stripped off his shirt. Mave stopped dead in her tracks.
His torso was a roadmap of violence. Scars—some old and faded, others jagged and relatively fresh—crisscrossed his heavily muscled chest and abdomen. It was undeniable proof that Rowan Mercer hadn't inherited his empire; he had bled for every inch of it.
Her hands trembled as she opened the antiseptic wipes. She knelt between his parted legs, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat radiating from his skin.
"This is going to sting," she whispered.
"I've had worse," he replied, his gaze locked onto her face, tracking every flicker of emotion in her eyes.
As she pressed the alcohol pad to the deep gash on his ribs, his muscles twitched, but his breathing remained agonizingly steady. Mave focused entirely on the wound, desperate to ignore the proximity of his lips, the scent of gunpowder and musk, and the terrifying realization that she felt safer kneeling in front of a mafia boss than she ever had in her entire life.
"Why didn't you let them hit you?" Mave asked quietly as she taped a thick gauze pad over the cut. "If I'm the bait, why did you throw yourself over me? If I die, Volkov thinks he won."
Rowan reached out, his hand wrapping around her wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the grip was absolute. He pulled her slightly closer until she had to look up into his dark, fathomless eyes.
"You are the bait, Mave," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal, velvet whisper. "To draw him out. But you are my bait. And I do not let other men touch what belongs to me. If Viktor Volkov wants to take you from me, he will have to walk over my rotting corpse to do it."
A shiver raced down Mave’s spine. It wasn't fear. It was something entirely different, something hot and dangerous that she had no business feeling.
Before she could process it, the heavy metal door of the living room opened. Elias stepped in, flanked by four men armed to the teeth in tactical gear.
"Perimeter is secure," Elias announced, ignoring the intimate proximity between Rowan and Mave. "Our men are in position."
Rowan released her wrist and stood up, rolling his shoulders as if he hadn't just been bleeding out a minute ago. The vulnerability was gone, instantly replaced by the terrifying, untouchable kingpin.
"Good," Rowan said, walking toward a massive wall monitor and powering it on. A map of the city appeared, covered in red targets. "Volkov wanted to make a statement tonight. He missed. Now, we remind the city why they fear the Mercer name."
Rowan pointed to a cluster of red dots by the harbor.
"Elias. Take Alpha team. I want Volkov’s shipping containers burned to ash. Beta team, hit his underground casinos in the meatpacking district. No survivors, no prisoners. Leave nothing but scorched earth."
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Mave watched from the floor, clutching the first-aid kit to her chest. The devil had been unleashed, and the city was about to burn.
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