Adrian’s Broken Angel (The Ionescu Romanian Mafia #2)

Chapter 1

ADRIAN

Strada Republicii is packed with people as we make our way toward the center along the shops.

We finally break through the crowds, and Bra?ov's old town square sprawls around us, all pastel buildings and old world charm. It's the kind of place tourists take photos and couples smile with happiness from their vacation.

Elena's fingers are laced through mine.

She's laughing. That bright, unguarded sound that makes me feel like the world isn't such a shit place after all. Her dark hair catches the sunlight, and when she turns to look at me, her eyes are bright.

"You're staring,” she says.

"Always staring at you, Leni,” I say.

She rolls her eyes, but her fingers tighten around mine.

“You're ridiculous."

"Doar pentru tine," I say and then switch. "Only for you."

She leans over and kisses me. "Your English is coming along nicely."

"Well," I shrug, "I have an excellent teacher."

We walk past the old fountain, the one where I kissed her for the first time when we were sixteen.

She'd tasted like cherry lip gloss, and my brothers howled, but I'd known right then I was completely fucked.

We continue walking, and suddenly the sky shifts.

One second it's blue and cloudless. The next, it's black.

The square empties. The people vanish like smoke. The warmth drains from the air, replaced by a cold that seeps into my bones.

Elena's hand tightens in mine.

"Adi?" she asks.

Her voice is different now. It's smaller and afraid.

I turn to her, and her face is pale. Her lips are bloodless, her eyes wide now with terror.

"What's wrong?" I reach for her other hand, but she's already being pulled backward.

"Adi!" she yells.

Hands, dozens of them, emerge from the darkness behind her. They grab her arms, her waist, her hair. They drag her away from me, and I'm running, lunging, trying to hold on, but my fingers slip through hers.

"Leni!" I yell, my hand reaching out for her. "Elena!"

She's screaming my name over and over, the sound rips through me.

I run harder, faster, but the ground beneath me stretches. No matter how far I go, she gets farther away.

Her screams fade, and the darkness swallows her whole, and I'm alone without her.

I jolt awake, gasping while reaching out.

My heart slams against my ribs, and sweat runs down my forehead.

I blink, disoriented for a moment, and then the cabin around me comes into focus. Cream-colored leather seats. Polished wood panels. The soft glow of overhead lights.

I'm not in Bra?ov, I'm on a private jet.

I rub my face, wiping away the sweat, and force myself to breathe.

It was just a dream. It's not real.

Except it is real, isn't it? Elena being ripped away and her screaming. That part happened, I just wasn't there to stop it.

I check my Rolex. One hour and seventeen minutes until we land in Bucharest.

Relief floods through me. I need to be on the ground. I need to move, to act, to do something other than sit here and let my brain eat itself alive since I discovered all this back in LA.

The flight attendant, a blonde, professional-looking woman, appears at my elbow with a tray. A glass of whiskey and a cup of water sit on it.

"Mr. Ionescu, can I get you anything else?"

"No."

She hesitates. "Are you sure? You look..."

"I said no."

Her smile falters as she sets the two cups down in front of me and nods as she retreats.

I grab the whiskey and drain it in one swallow. The burn does nothing to settle the chaos I'm feeling inside.

Elena's alive.

The thought loops in my head, over and over, a broken record I can't shut off.

She's alive, and she's been in Moscow for over a year.

Sold for fifty million dollars.

The number makes my stomach twist.

Not because it's high, but because it means something deeper. It means she's valuable, and other things must have come with her as part of the deal.

You don't fake a person's death to kidnap them. That's too much effort.

I lean back in the seat and close my eyes, but that's a mistake. All I see is her face in that photo.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.

She trusted me, and I let her get taken.

Worse, I didn't even know. For 18 months, I thought she was dead. I stood at her grave. I put flowers. I drank myself into oblivion because living without her felt impossible.

And all that time, she was alive.

Being sold. Being used. Being kept like a fucking trophy by the Volkov Bratva.

The Russians.

I have to refrain from punching the table.

I'm going to kill every last one of them.

The plane jolts slightly, hitting a patch of turbulence. The flight attendant glances my way, but I ignore her.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the photos I saved from the tablet. I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't. But I can't help it.

I zoom in on her face.

Her eyes are open, but they're empty.

The thought of what they did to her makes my vision blur with rage.

I close the photo and shove the phone back in my pocket.

One hour.

I can survive one more hour.

The plane lands, and as soon as it comes to a stop, I'm up on my feet.

The flight attendant appears again, this time with a polite but nervous smile.

"Mr. Ionescu. Your bag, sir."

I grab it from her and give her a curt nod and head for the door.

The stairs are already lowering by the time I reach it. Cold air rushes in, and it smells like jet fuel.

I step out onto the tarmac, and a black Rolls-Royce idles near the edge of the hangar.

Men in dark suits stand in a loose semicircle around it, and Victor leans against the car, arms crossed, perfectly composed.

He's dressed like he just stepped out of a boardroom. Charcoal suit with a white shirt, no tie. He looks like the untouchable politician he is.

I walk toward him, my boots splashing through a shallow puddle. The men stiffen up as I approach.

"Adrian," he says. "Good flight?" His voice is smooth.

I stop in front of him and just look at him.

He uncrosses his arms, pulls me into a quick hug, then grips my shoulder.

"O vom aduce ?napoi," he says quietly. "We'll bring her back."

"?sta e planul," I say.

"?i ?i vom omor? pe to?i," Victor says, gesturing toward the car. "Let's go. We have work to do."

One of the men opens the door, and I slide into the backseat while he takes my bag. The interior smells like leather and expensive cologne. Victor gets in on the other side and sits beside me.

The driver pulls away smoothly, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.

Victor pulls out his phone, scrolling through something, but I can't stand the silence any longer.

I turn toward him. "Tell me, brother. How do we wipe the Volkov Bratva off the face of this earth while getting Elena back?"

He pockets his phone and smiles. "We start with where I'm taking you."