Chapter 3
Kirill
“Move.” I pitch my voice low to minimize the echo in the empty hallway.
Jordan stumbles as I push her forward, tensing against my fingers on her elbow.
Not nearly enough resistance to matter. She’s weak.
My hand easily fits around her entire arm. Her face is thinner than natural, and her waist looks about as big around as my thigh.
That half a grapefruit is starting to make sense.
She could use a good meal. Some red meat and potatoes. Maybe a nice stew.
Why the fuck do I care what she eats?
I tighten my grip on her elbow.
“You’re hurting me.” Fascination rather than fear tinges her voice.
Wrong reaction. People should find me terrifying. That’s the point.
I loosen my hold, just a fraction. She’ll be inconvenient if she’s marked up, bruised, or crying. People tend to notice sights like that and might try to jump in and help. Which would mean I’d have to kill them and dispose of their bodies.
The stairwell smells like piss and bleach, the overhead light flickering as we descend down three floors of cramped steps. With each landing, her feet slow more. She’s testing my patience.
My grip tightens again, hitting the bundle of nerves beneath her skin.
She gasps, her arm spasming under my touch. “I don’t understand what you want. I don’t have anything. I’m not who you think I am.”
I don’t answer. Words are ammunition, so I only use them when necessary. Every syllable is a bullet you can’t take back.
Outside, garbage and exhaust permeate the early evening air. As a siren wails in the distance, I scan the street out of instinct.
Three parked cars on this side and two across. A homeless man hunched in a doorway half a block down. No immediate threats.
She shivers, and I realize she’s wearing nothing but that thin flowy dress and leggings that show off long legs. No jacket. Ridiculous fuzzy socks with moons on them.
I should have grabbed her shoes. Cold, cramped feet will slow us down.
As if she heard my thoughts, she spins around. “I need to go back. My shoes, my—”
Too late. “No.”
My Audi, a black sedan with tinted windows, waits twenty yards ahead. Anonymous and forgettable. I haul her down the cracked sidewalk.
She drags her feet, her body slumping as she strains against me. “At least tell me where we’re going. Or why. Is this about money? Because I don’t have any, which you could probably tell from my place. But I could maybe get some, or—”
“Stop talking.”
She digs her socked feet deeper into the sidewalk.
“If it’s not money, then what? Because honestly, the universe doesn’t reward this kind of aggressive masculine energy, and your chakras are seriously misaligned right now, which might explain why you’re doing this whole…
” She waves her free hand vaguely at me, “…intimidation thing.”
I ignore the stream of nonsense, focusing instead on our surroundings as we move.
The atmosphere just shifted.
My neck prickles, the warning system that’s kept me alive through gunfights and ambushes alight with nerves.
The night is too quiet, the street too empty.
I quicken the pace.
With every sense on high alert, I release her arm to grab the keys from my pocket. Mistake. She backs away, her eyes darting toward the road as she calculates her chances.
“Don’t bother.” I unlock the car.
She steps back again, her hair falling across her face in the yellow streetlight. Even in the dim glow, her bright green eyes glint with feral defiance. “You have bad vibes.”
Bad vibes? What the hell does that even mean? I clench my keys. I can’t deal with her stupid New Age crap right now. “They’re about to get worse if you don’t get in.”
She narrows her eyes and tilts her head. Studies me. “Shark-y vibes.”
I freeze.
That one word causes ice water to bleed through my veins.
Shark.
That’s what Vanya Orlov calls me. What some of the other guys call me behind my back.
How the fuck does she know that?
The momentary pause costs me.
Quick footsteps trail us.
I turn while calculating angles, trajectories, threats.
Three men approach from the shadows of a neighboring building. Dark clothes. Hands reaching inside jackets. They all have slicked back black hair, like they’re in some shitty boy band.
I’d been too focused on the girl to notice.
“Get in the car.” I shove her without glancing back as I step forward to meet them. “Now.”
The first man, who has scars all over his arms, advances with casual confidence while pulling a blade from his pocket.
Amateur.
A knife only works if you can get close enough to use it, and I don’t give him the chance.
Picking up a lose brick on the sidewalk, I sling the stone straight at his head.
He stops short and screams, clutching his face.
Blood gushes from his broken nose as I lurch into his space.
He’s blind and reeling, more worried about his pain than his surroundings.
His blunder, my good fortune.
Easy enough to bat his arm wide with my left hand while my right connects with his throat.
A quick, sharp jab crushes his windpipe.
He drops to his knees, clawing at his neck and choking for air.
I know I hit hard enough to kill him. He won’t be getting back up.
I pivot toward the larger man with tattoos on his knuckles.
This one’s clearly smarter considering he hung back and drew his gun. I duck as he fires, the shot cracking through the night air.
This needs to end quickly before we draw attention.
I peer behind me. Jordan huddles against the side of the car, covering her head with her arms. At least she’s staying a small target.
She didn’t fucking listen, though.
Stubborn. She might be a problem after all, but not one I can deal with at the moment.
From my crouch, I lunge forward, ramming my shoulder into Knuckle Tattoo’s midsection.
The impact punches the air from his lungs. We hit the pavement together, his head cracking against concrete.
The gun skitters across asphalt, forgotten.
I drive my elbow into his face. As cartilage gives way under the blow, warm blood sprays against my skin, the scent of iron heavy.
He groans and lies still, his limbs twitching.
Two down.
And I’m not even breathing hard.
From somewhere behind me, Jordan gasps. I whip around to check—I can’t let my mark get hurt already—but she’s fine. She points over my shoulder, her wide eyes shining in the streetlight’s glow.
The third man circles to my left, cautious now that he’s seen his friends go down. He’s older and more experienced.
Dangerous.
He aims his gun at my chest with steady hands. “Easy now. Just step away from him, nice and slow.”
Not good. I’m exposed. No cover. No clear path to disarm him before he fires.
But I’ve endured worse situations.
I get to my feet, holding Knuckle Tattoos in front of me.
Before I can attack, headlights sweep the street as a van rounds the corner.
Reinforcements. Damn.
The odds just deteriorated from bad to shitty.
The van screeches to a halt thirty feet away, and the side door slides open. Two more men jump out, moving with professional efficiency.
Time to go.
Fighting four armed men in the open is suicide.
“Fuck.” I retreat toward my car where Jordan remains frozen, her eyes wide with terror. Knuckle Tattoos, still too dazed to defend himself, stumbles along with me.
“Get in.” I push Jordan into the passenger seat and leave big man standing on his own between us and the rest of his men. I slide across the hood to the driver’s side, my keys already in hand.
Two shots crack against metal as I drop behind the wheel. Once the engine roars to life, I shift into drive. Tires scream against pavement when we lurch forward.
Jordan’s fingers scrabble for her seat belt, her face pale in the dashboard’s glow. She’s not fighting anymore. Fear has a way of inspiring compliance.
Good to know she’s not unflappable.
“What’s happening?” Her voice shakes as I round the first corner too quickly, the car fishtailing before the tires catch. “Who are those men?”
I check the rearview mirror. The van’s headlights swing into view behind us as the vehicle accelerates. “People who want what you have.”
“I don’t have anything!” Her knuckles go white on the dashboard as I barrel through another turn, the g-force hurling her against the door. “I told you, I don’t—”
“Not now.”
The streets blur past, narrow corridors of brick and concrete.
I navigate by instinct, taking turns that might shake our pursuers.
The van stays three car lengths back, the driver persistent as a bloodhound.
These aren’t street thugs. They’re professionals, which means they’re working with resources. Maybe even aligned with Gio Falcone, who’s supposed to be dead.
Kolya dropped a damn roof on the man a couple weeks ago. But no one confirmed the kill, so here we are.
More people coming for her. The same way they went for Chloe and the diamonds.
Just what I need.
I cut down an alley barely wide enough for the car, metal scraping brick on the passenger side. The alley spits us out onto a wider street, where we find ourselves momentarily free of pursuit.
Jordan presses herself against her seat. “Do you know them?”
“Nope.”
“Are they going to kill us?” Her voice catches on the word “kill.” The barest tremor.
“Me, they’ll try. You, worse. If you’re nice, and I have a chance, I’ll kill you before they can haul you away.” Sometimes I’m just too damn kind for my own good.
Her face tightens as her eyes squeeze shut. “I’m going to die because someone thinks I have something I don’t.”
I keep quiet.
The van reappears in my rearview, closer now. Our assailants know these streets too.
I navigate through another hard left, then a right. The tires squeal in protest. The buildings grow taller and the streets get narrower as we head into the industrial district. A maze of loading docks, warehouses, and dead ends.
Good place to disappear.
Better place to set a trap.
The van stays with us, gaining ground. If I don’t end this now, we’ll spend the whole night evading them.