Chapter 17
Vanya
The borrowed shirt hangs awkwardly on Paige. She pulled her clothes on over her steam-drenched underwear, and all that wet material was probably wildly uncomfortable. Unfortunately, the pickings in the lost and found were slim.
Now she wears a men’s button-up, with the sleeves rolled to her elbows.
The buttons strain across her chest in a way that causes my jaw to clench.
Women’s black leggings that end just above her ankles cling to every curve.
Luckily, we also found a hair tie, so her freshly tamed tresses swing from a high pony with each step.
I open the door and let her walk out of the building first, enjoying the view as she carries her clutch and a bag with her damp clothing.
October in Chicago has teeth, especially this late at night. Paige shivers and hugs herself.
I shuck off my jacket and slip the fabric over her shoulders, eliciting an expression that I can’t quite decipher.
Surprise? Gratitude? Tenderness? I decide not to examine it any deeper, instead placing a hand on her arm to guide her toward the new vehicle Max brought, complete with working windows and no signs of a recent collision.
“We’re over there.” I nod toward the nondescript Mazda backed into the spot second closest to the building, the kind of car that vanishes in traffic. I trust Max to always set things up properly.
He always drilled it into my head to back in when parking, too, because you never know when you’ll need to make a speedy getaway.
When Max left the keys with me, Alexei assured me they’d transferred all the contents from the trunk and glove box.
Paige follows without complaint, her silence bothering me more than it should. She’s barely said a word since we left the sauna room.
We’re ten feet from the vehicle when headlights sweep the lot. One from each entrance. Coordinated. Professional.
They move in sync, blocking the exits.
“Fuck.” My hand reaches for the gun at my hip. I shove Paige toward the low concrete wall separating the lot from the dumpster area, rushing behind her. “Down. Now.”
She drops behind the barrier without argument. I’m grateful she’s alert.
I crouch beside her with my gun at the ready and dig for my keys with my other hand. Once I find them, I press them into her palm, folding her fingers over the cold metal. “If I go down, get in that car and drive. Understand?”
Her eyes widen, and she starts to shake her head. “Vanya—”
“You drive.” I squeeze her hand. “You get out of here. Even if you have to go to the police. I don’t care. Just don’t let them get you. Promise me.”
My mind flashes back to Chloe Davidson, Kolya’s girlfriend. Gio had kidnapped and tortured her. That memory’s been sitting in the back of my mind since I saw the sedan ram Paige off the road.
She bites her lip and closes her eyes, then steel settles over her features. “I promise.” Her other hand covers mine and squeezes back.
I cling to that vow like I would a lifeline before peeking around the corner of the wall.
This should be hallowed ground. The peace treaty that set up the Banya Club as a neutral space covers the parking lots, employees, and cars coming and going.
The treaty should—but clearly doesn’t—stop these two black SUVs from swinging in on opposite ends.
The doors pop open, and four men wearing bulletproof vests file out, rifles up, tactical gear strapped tight. They spread out silently, their weapons at the ready. In seconds, they’ve boxed us in with the same kind of precision I noticed on the road outside the library.
Gio’s mercenaries. These ones look even more well trained than the last batch.
Beside me, Paige freezes. I feel her every muscle go taut.
Blyat.
I have no time to fear for her safety. No time for anything but action.
The nearest mercenary has his rifle trained on the door we just passed through.
I take aim, and my bullet catches him in the throat.
As he drops with a gurgle of blood, the night explodes into chaos.
Muzzle flashes light up the lot in strobing bursts. I’m already in motion, diving left, rolling behind the dumpster and away from Paige’s hiding spot.
The stink of rotting food and oil hits my nose, but cover is cover.
Bullets whine past my head, chewing into brick and metal. One guy darts to the side. Another hides behind the Mazda. The third stays put, crouching. His gun points in my general direction, but he appears oblivious of my actual location.
I lean out and fire twice.
Because he ducks, my head shot misses him.
Three men and ten bullets. Plus the two guns I’ve stowed in my coat pockets.
One bastard blocks Paige from her escape route. I shift my position, keeping low.
Sticking to the dumpster and a row of industrial bins, I work my way around to the fool who’s crouching behind my car.
The three shooters remain quiet.
No talking. No more random gunfire that would attract police presence or give away their positions.
In the varied shadows, their tactical black stands out.
Half crawling along the grassy embankment, I get within striking distance while my target remains focused on the dumpster.
I holster my gun, willing to take the risk. Before he can adjust his aim, I’m on him.
Slamming his gun away with my forearm, I ignore the sting of bone on metal. He fights back, his hands grasping for my throat.
I catch his pinky, forcing it to fold backwards with an almost delicate snap.
The man, who’s built like a bull, doesn’t even scream. His wild eyes spark with pain and rage, though.
Hiking his knee up, he aims for my groin. I twist, and his knee meets my thigh as I drive my elbow into his jaw.
His head whips back.
I follow through, using his own rifle to break his nose. When he swings, I spy the glint of metal.
Fucker’s got a knife.
I snag his wrist. Grabbing his broken pinky again, I grind it into the bones of his hand.
He snarls, dropping the blade and striking me in the kidney with his other fist.
I grunt as pain floods through my back and side, but I recover swiftly, straddle his chest, and slam my palm into his forehead. The back of his skull bounces off the asphalt.
A wet garble spills out of his mouth.
Fuck.
We need information more than I need another corpse. Hitting that sweet spot in between talking and killing isn’t my forte.
I shift my weight and grip his right wrist. “How’d you find me?”
Wrenching his arm, I smash the broken ends of his bones against each other, the pops of torn muscle and tendon vibrating through my palm.
With a pained groan, he clamps his jaw shut and refuses to answer.
I rip off his ski mask. A ball of white plastic peeks out of his left ear. Snatching the device free, I hold it up to my own ear.
“I repeat, only Orlov is with her. Get eyes on the woman. She’s the asset. Do not damage her. Repeat, do not damage her.”
Cool, unhurried, with the faintest Italian lilt.
My blood freezes to ice because I’d know that voice—clearly not here but monitoring remotely—anywhere.
Gio Fucking Falcone. Just like I suspected.
I press my gun to my captive’s kneecap and fire. He releases a bloodcurdling, inhuman scream, attracting the others’ attention.
I roll behind the Mazda and leap up into a crouch. A second later, I shoot guy number two in the gut. He falls to his ass, his rifle clattering to the pavement a few feet away.
Rising, I search for my final target.
The last man pops up from behind a Range Rover and sends a wild shot my way. Heat rips through my shoulder. I hiss, force the pain aside, and aim.
Too bad Gio doesn’t know I’m one of the best marksmen in Roman’s arsenal.
Backlit by the lights of the building, the idiot mercenary has become a sitting duck. My shot hits the target.
The top of his head explodes, blood and brain matter flying as he collapses to the ground.
Both SUVs have their doors wide open, the dome lights revealing empty interiors. With Paige still nearby, though, I’m not taking any chances.
While my broken-boned friend continues to shriek and cry, I approach the first SUV.
Nothing.
Same with the second one.
Only four guys?
I’m a little insulted.
Silence crashes down, interrupted only by the wet gasps of the man with the shattered knee. As a message for Gio Falcone, I put one last bullet between his eyes.
You don’t touch what belongs to the Kozlovs.
I pivot, scanning for threats, and find none. “Paige. Car. Now.”
She surprises me by climbing out of the shadows only a couple feet from the sedan. As she straightens, the keys dangle from between her clenched fingers.
Admiration and fear flood my system. “What in the… I told you to hide.” Why the fuck was she so close?
“I thought it was you screaming, and…”
And she was getting ready to run like I told her. Smart girl.
“…I couldn’t just stay there while you were being hurt.”
Good lord, this woman weakens me in the knees.
What the hell do I do with her?
Before I can scold her or praise her or…anything, the rumbling of approaching engines buzzes through my ears.
“Key!” I raise my right hand, and she tosses them to me. “Get in.” My left arm burns as I reach for the handle.
Paige fumbles with the car door, yanks it open, and throws herself into the passenger seat.
The engine roars to life. Ignoring the blocked exits, I drive through the grass and head toward the nearby residential area.
Cutting through side streets, I check the mirrors and watch for tails.
Nothing.
Two roads away, I flick on the headlights.
Paige sits silently, gripping the bag in her lap like it’s her lifeline.
She’s breathing too fast, shallow little gasps that hitch every few seconds.
I’ve seen this kind of adrenaline crash a thousand times.
When I pry one of her hands free, ice-cold fingers tremble against my palm. “You’re safe. Don’t worry.”
She frowns at my hand before meeting my eyes. “For now. But you could’ve been killed.”
“Could have, but I wasn’t.” I lift her hand to my lips and press a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m always okay when I’m with you.” I flash the smile that’s melted a hundred women before her…and probably dozens of men.
Unfortunately, my cheesy line doesn’t have the intended effect.
She just stares ahead, unblinking. The smile dies on my lips.
I return my focus to the road, my jaw locking, my fingers tightening on the wheel. Blood soaks through my sleeve where the bullet grazed me, but I disregard the wetness on my arm.
The wound on my side doesn’t matter. Only the heavy realization that charm—my most reliable weapon—doesn’t work on her matters.
She sees through it. She sees me.
And she’s not impressed.
I hate that I want her to look at me the way she did in the sauna.
Hungry. Desperate.
Mine.
I care more about what she thinks than she cares about me.
Before everything turned bloody and put her life at risk, she enjoyed the thrill.
Now she’s experienced the reality and clearly doesn’t believe I’m up to the task of keeping her safe. Not if she thought I needed her to come save me.