27. Mila
27
MILA
T he car Vitaly promised to send never arrives.
I pace the living room with the curtains I promised Roman I’d keep closed wide open and spin toward them with urgency every time my back has been turned for more than a moment. But still, no car appears in the dusty drive.
A half hour goes by after the car was supposed to show.
Then a full hour.
Finally, my pacing stops. I stand, staring at the window as loose bits of air still manage to expand my chest, even though it feels as if there isn’t enough oxygen in the room.
The throwing knife Vitaly gave me is tucked into the top of my sports bra at my back. I’m wearing a tank top that hangs low, so I have easy access to the knife. All it would take is one swift lift of my arm to grasp the blade.
There’s a six-inch section of wood on the garage outside that’s nothing but light, chipped wood against a dark brown canvas showing my hours of practice with this knife. I practiced just as Vitaly suggested. Quietly. Never showing my intentions to my imagined enemy. I know this blade like it’s my friend. A gift from my love. A token of his belief in me, of his respect for me as not just a woman he loves but a partner he can fight beside.
Now my friend mocks me.
My jaw clenches as I raise my arm above my head and slide the knife from the top of my bra. Without glancing at it, I flip it in my hand and try not to let my anger rule me. Yesterday, I considered running away with Vitaly just to spare his life. I would’ve sacrificed my dignity for the man. So I shouldn’t blame him for deceiving me in an attempt to keep me safe, despicable and insulting as it is.
I suppose love makes a person do crazy things.
Catching the knife in a firm grasp, I slide it back into its place and search my mind for a plan B. Up until now, I’d held out hope that the car was simply late and that Vitaly would come through.
Obviously, that isn’t going to happen.
So I need to get to the mansion on my own.
I check the time on the disposable cell Vitaly left with me that first day. Seven. The dinner will be starting now.
I wasted so much time.
With a growl, I open the phone and pull up the contacts, but of course, there are none. Closing my eyes, I try to pluck phone numbers from my memory, but the only ones that come are ones that are useless. My father, Nikita, Alik. My brother Leo is too much of a coward to go up against Nikita. But my brother Luka…
I pause.
Luka?
Four digits are typed before I pause again.
Would he really come get me? He may not be afraid of Nikita, but he doesn’t hate him either, as far as I can tell. And his ambivalence extends to me.
But it doesn’t matter anyway.
I’m out in the desert. By the time he drove out here then got me to the manor, it would be too late.
I lower my phone and eye the car keys dangling from a hook by the door. Blowing out a breath, I set my phone in my lap.
“ Fuck .”
“Come on, baby,” I say to the cherry Mustang that must be Roman’s as I ease off the brake only to immediately slam on it after lurching forward in the garage.
I rub the steering wheel as if the thing is an actual horse. I’m not insane, but just in case machines can hear, I have to try.
“Almost there.” I sit up straight and breathe out slowly through a circle I make with my lips. Then I tighten my grip on the wheel and slowly ease off the brake. The car rolls more smoothly this time, and my lips lift with a relieved grin until I’m jolted with the grating sound of metal scraping. I turn the wheel, but it only makes it worse, the car slowing with friction as I drive it against the garage opening. I cringe as I step on the gas to push it out the rest of the way.
Tension eases once I’m out, and I swear the car seems to let out a sigh of relief. Or maybe it’s just me.
Fuck, I hate driving.
I press on the brake and give myself just a few moments before I step on the gas again. At first, I go painstakingly slow, taking the turn onto the dirt road at a snail’s speed. But as my urgency to get the manor overrides my unease, my foot on the gas gets heavier.
I grip the steering wheel tight and lean forward until my chin is over it, my eyes wide looking out the windshield. Every time I pass a car on the two-lane highway, nausea rolls through my stomach, and I have to fight the urge to pull over to let them go by.
Every stop feels unnatural, either I’m jerking or I’m crawling too slow, but after a while, I can’t believe I’m actually doing it. That I’ve gone this long without ever trying.
It isn’t hard to find Vegas from the little house in the desert, mostly because I paid close attention to the drive I thought would be to my gravesite, but it does take some time. It’s eight o’clock before I finally make it to the closest bus stop to the mansion that’s another seven miles away.
I drive six more miles before abandoning the Mustang on the side of the road, my hands shaking as I finally pull them from the steering wheel.
I take off in a run toward the mansion. The gate is electrified all around, but in one spot, there’s a tree with branches that’ll let you shimmy right over. If you know the property, and know Nikita , it’s doable. My plan is to scale a tree on the side of the mansion that’ll get me to the second floor. It’s monitored, but that shouldn’t matter soon enough. They’ll already be fighting. I might’ve already missed it.
Nikita’s image pops into my mind at that thought, that cruel smile mocking me. I narrow my eyes, lengthen my strides, and pump my arms even harder.