PROLOGUE #2
People scream. Chairs scrape. Someone drops a tray. I duck and cover my head as Sergei pulls me toward the floor. “Stay down,” he snaps.
Another shot. Sergei twists, trying to get eyes on the shooter, and the bullet hits him in the chest.
His grip on my wrist loosens instantly. His mouth opens, but no words come out. “No,” I breathe.
He falls forward. His weight hits me, heavy and warm. Blood spreads across my coat. My hands shove at him, trying to push him off, but he’s too big and my arms are shaking. “Sergei,” I gasp, tears falling freely now. “Sergei, get up.”
His eyes go wide, and he tries to breathe but can’t. The shooter’s footsteps pound closer.
I scramble, pushing Sergei’s body aside, crawling on my hands and knees under the table. My coat drags through spilled coffee and blood. My brain is screaming at me to run, run, run. I get my feet under me and bolt toward the back door.
Another shot hits the wall near my head. Plaster chips spray across my cheek. I flinch but I don’t stop. I slam through the back door and sprint into the alley.
My lungs burn. My legs feel weak. I run anyway. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I’m going away from Sergei Morin dying on top of me.
I reach the street and look left, then right.
A black SUV rolls up so smoothly, it’s already beside me before I can react. The passenger door opens. A man leans out. “Alina.”
I turn and run. My foot catches on uneven pavement. I stumble, catch myself, keep running.
Hands grab my arms from behind. I scream and swing my elbow back. It lands on someone’s ribs, and he grunts. Another hand clamps over my mouth. “Stop,” a voice snaps in my ear. “Stop fighting.”
I bite his palm. He curses and tightens his grip, dragging me backward. The SUV door is open again. I kick, twisting hard, but I’m hauled in anyway. The door slams shut.
My mouth opens and I scream again, loud, broken, panicked. The man beside me grabs my chin, forcing my face toward him. “Shut up.”
I spit in his face. His eyes go flat. “All right.”
Something sharp presses into my neck. I jerk back, but it’s too late. My body goes heavy too fast. My head drops forward. The last thing I see is the man wiping his cheek, annoyed. Then everything goes dark.
When I wake up, my mouth is dry and my wrists hurt.
I’m in the back seat of a different vehicle now, or the same one, I can’t tell.
My hands are zip-tied in my lap. Two men sit in the front.
One drives while the other watches the road.
We drive for what feels like too long. I press my head back against the seat and force myself to think clearly.
If Sergei’s men kidnapped me, his family is going to kill me. If Sergei’s enemies kidnapped me, I’m about to disappear.
Either way, my mother is alone in that apartment. My hands shake once, then I still them.
The car turns through a gate. Gravel crunches under the tires as the road curves, then curves again. My eyes register rows of trees and expensive flowers lining the driveway in bursts of reds and oranges, iron fencing, and security lights.
Then the car stops and the door opens and cold air hits my face. “Out.”
I climb out with my hands still tied, and my knees wobble before I can steady myself, but a man grips my elbow and holds me upright without a hint of gentleness.
Once I’m outside, I force my gaze up and take in the house in front of me, huge and built from pale stone, its dark windows sealed and unlit, giving nothing back.
Men line the entrance and the drive, all armed to the teeth, but the man at the top of the steps doesn’t bother with a gun.
He’s tall, broad, built like a damn wall, every inch of him solid and unhurried.
Silver streaks through the dark hair at his temples, and the trimmed stubble on his hard jaw looks rough enough to leave a burn on skin if he got close.
His steel-gray eyes lock onto me, stripping me bare with a single look.
Heat pools low in my belly, and I hate how my breath catches, how my eyes betray me by tracing the way his dark suit hugs every hard line of his body.
The open collar of his white shirt reveals a glimpse of tanned skin, the edge of dark ink peeking out.
His hands rest in his pockets, but there’s a tension there, like he’s choosing restraint, barely holding back from reaching out and claiming what he wants.
I shift on my feet, trying to shake the feeling, but my thighs clench without permission, and I’m painfully aware of the damp heat building between them.
My mind screams to look away, to stop this, but my body’s already betraying me, imagining those rough hands sliding out of his pockets, gripping my hips, pulling me against that solid chest. I bite my lip, hard, trying to snap myself out of it, but his gaze doesn’t waver, and the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Keep staring, sweetheart,” he says, voice rolling over me like a rough caress. “I don’t mind the attention.”
My face burns, but I can’t look away, not when his words hit like a touch, making my skin prickle and my core tighten. “I’m not staring,” I snap, but it’s weak, and we both know it.
He takes a slow step down, closing the distance just enough that I can smell the faint spice of his cologne. “Liar,” he murmurs, and that single word sends a shiver straight down my spine, pooling hot and heavy between my legs.