Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nikolai
I’m breaking the speed limit, my foot pressed to the floor.
I maneuver through standstill traffic, horns blaring, but I’m gone, running the red light before anyone can stick their middle finger up at me.
This next stretch of road is only two lanes wide.
Blyad!
Cars roll, too many of them on the road for me to avoid a collision. But when it comes to Lauren and my daughter, there are simply no consequences big enough. None that outweigh the action of saving their lives.
I glimpse over my shoulder. There’s a vehicle in my blind spot in the overtaking lane, but I swerve into their piece of road anyway, earning myself a nasty beep. Brakes screech. I see a middle finger shooting up in the rearview mirror.
I swerve, going over the middle of the two lanes to avoid a collision serious enough for me to be stopped by the cops. The car in the left lane suffers a minor casualty—its side-view mirror coming away from the body thanks to me accidentally clipping it.
An angry man sticks his head out of the window but I couldn’t care less. My fucking heart feels like it’s going faster than the speed of this car, but none of it has anything to do with my unsafe driving.
That’s when I hear sirens.
Yobany Urod!
I grit my teeth, running a light just as it turns red, hoping to create some distance between myself and the cops chasing me.
I search up ahead for directions at the nearest intersection—to see if my escape plan from the cops will correlate with where Lauren’s live location is. I consult my hands-free screen. It says she’s on Baker Street.
I look again.
Last update: Five minutes ago.
I can practically feel the color fade from my face.
Why the fuck has her live location ended?
I slam the steering wheel, my veins laced with frustration. Maybe one of us lost signal. Maybe the live location hasn’t had a chance to update. I go to look again, noticing that the blue dot has stopped pulsating.
Yob tvoyu mat' v koryto!
My breathing becomes shallow, the edges of my vision going hazy. I glance in the rearview mirror, hoping that the police have gotten tied up in something more serious, but I see those blue, whirling lights coming my way.
My foot hits the floor again with a mind of its own.
I’m glad my registration plate is just one of many I keep.
I speed away and manage to maneuver my way to Baker Street, hoping that she’s still there.
Cruising up to the spot where her location last blinked, I feel queasy, my vision seeing double when I finally step out of the car to search for her.
I glance at my phone.
Active eight minutes ago.
I’m only a few feet away from where the dot was blinking. I look up from the device, scanning the surroundings. According to the app, she’s in the café across the road. I sprint across, earning myself two beeps and a, “get off the fucking road.”
Entering the café, I whip my head left and right, searching for her face in the crowd. Every single person’s eyes are on me, conversations stopping. I head straight to the counter, the barista looking at me with a strange expression on her face.
“Was Lauren here?” I’m breathless.
“Lauren?”
“Lauren Watson. Twenty-seven, brunette hair. Below shoulder length. Green eyes.”
The woman looks at me confused. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t-”
I’m darting back out of the café before she can finish talking, crossing the road to get back to my car.
I shut the door and check my phone.
Live location ended twelve minutes ago.
Pizdets!
I kick open the driver’s door, leaving my car double-parked. Watson & Co. Investments is only a block up ahead, so I start towards the office, my footsteps pounding against the pavement. I must look insane, passersby double-glancing at me as I storm past them.
Reminding myself that I had cops on my tail, I drop into a run, hoping that I wasn’t seen by anyone leaving my car.
Adrenaline brings the run into a sprint.
The people that pass me start turning to stop, wondering why a six-foot, tattooed guy is darting across the street like he’s ready to kill someone.
I have never run this fast in my life. Sure, I’ve been through some pretty fucked up shit during my early days in the Bratva, but this is different.
This is Lauren’s life.
Our child’s life.
Now might be a good time to face that they mean more to me than my own goddamn life. I blink my eyes for a moment, shaking away the image of her laid beautifully underneath me as we made love the other night.
Our entwined bodies…
Could it have been our last time?
Cut it out, mudak.
You’ll find her.
I clear my vision and focus on what needs to be done. My thoughts are just getting in the way of what should be my focus.
Head in the game, dolboyob!
I barge into the office building, the receptionist bolting upright at my unannounced appearance.
“Sir, you need to check in before you—”
“No time!”
I call for an elevator, thumbing the button repeatedly.
It doesn’t come soon enough, so I head for the stairs, taking three at a time, sprinting up to Lauren’s office.
Adrenaline winds through me, taking the strain off my muscles.
I ascend flights of stairs, so many that it feels like there is no end.
Arriving at the right level, I push open the glass doors and head straight to Lauren’s office, my footsteps announcing to all that an intruder has just broken in. Her assistant looks at me funny but stands back to let me pass.
A new wave of fear cuts through me when I see that her office is empty.
Not good.
Then, footsteps echo behind me.
I whip around and meet the face of one of Charles’ employees. She looks at me with narrowed cat eyes through the lenses of her glasses. “Can I help you, Mr. Rogov?”
“Where is she?” I can’t get my words out.
“She? I’m sorry, Mr. Rogov, I’m going to have to ask you to wait while I inform Mr. Watson-”
“Where is Lauren?”
“She left for lunch about thirty minutes ago. Would you like me to-”
Chert voz’mi!
I’m out of Lauren’s office without a second thought, navigating my way to her father’s office, intending to wrap my hands around his neck. I reach his office and push through the door.
Empty.
What the fuck?
I take a breath, slowing to a walk to make sure the old pizda isn’t hiding under the table. He isn’t. No sign of him anywhere. The air conditioning has been switched off, his desk tidy, cluttered with no paperwork.
Da chtoby tebe kol osínovyy v serdtse!
Not fucking good!
I’m out of his office in less than a second, heading back to the lobby when my phone rings in my pocket.
I stop dead in my tracks.
A paralyzing dread fills my body, turning my blood to cement.
I take out my phone.
Unknown number.
The cement solidifies into concrete, rendering me frozen.
This can only mean one thing…
My heart rattles against my ribs like a series of warning shots through a cold Moscow night.
I accept the call, bring it to my ear, and wait for my death sentence to be delivered.
“Tavarish Rogov,” the voice says. “Do I have your attention?”
I know that voice all too well. The familiar accent, the cold amusement that drips from every syllable are like poison. They make every muscle in my body coil with a rage so pure it threatens to consume me whole.
It’s the voice of Ronan Aslanov.