Vengeful Promises (Siderov Bratva #2)

1. Emily

1

EMILY

The driver turns the lights off and shrouds us in semidarkness as the car continues to move. I squint, trying to see everything I can. The round bulbs stacked on the top of the fences outside are the only thing I can see. Abandoned lot, trash all over the place, cracked asphalt ... No address posted anywhere.

What is this place?

At this rate, I won’t know where I’ll be when I die.

If I die, I remind myself firmly.

Neither of the men has tried to hurt me yet. From the way the two of them kept referring to me as la puttanella di Siderov in excited voices, it doesn’t sound like they intend to.

But then again, I’m not putting much faith in the words of two men who I literally just saw commit murder without so much as a blink. Once my panic has subsided knowing that I’m not about to immediately die, I’m left with one final burning question.

What the hell are they doing here?

From everything that Konstantin has told me and everything that I’ve been able to piece together, Croatia should’ve been free of all Ferrata Mafia presence.

Yet these two men were practically within spitting distance of the castle.

Something else is afoot here.

More than once on the way here, I debated trying something to force the car off the path. But the way the fat one had kept his eyes on me, I knew that there would only be one way this could end.

So, I am forced to fantasize about their deaths in my head.

I resist the urge to touch my belly. I still have no idea whether or not I am pregnant. And truth be told, the timing would line up. But until I know for certain …

Best not to assume, or let anyone else suspect.

Not yet.

The car stops.

The driver steps out as he kills the engine. The fat one watching me yanks me to him as he drags me out of the car. I’m reminded of how Konstantin had taken me to Croatia. I blink as I try to figure out just where we are, and I can’t help myself from laughing.

“What’s funny?” the fat man crushes my upper arm in his whole hand. “Tell!”

“Nothing, just imagining what’s going to happen when my husband finds the two of you.” I reply, smiling, and try to wrench my arm out of his hand. But his grip is unbreakable.

“Your husband will die soon,” he snarls. “Then, you.”

He drags me along towards a row of buildings, and panic starts to settle in.

“Where are we going?” I turn towards him. “What is this place?”

The fat man ignores my questions while the thin man is busy with a gate ahead. I’m dragged over the gravel, my shoes doing their best to grip the ground. I can’t escape, but I’m not making this easy on him.

“Stop fighting,” he growls.

“Never.”

He shoots a murderous glare at me, and then his free hand connects with my face. The force of the hit leaves my head ringing, and I feel blood rushing down my nose and taste warm copper in my mouth.

“Stop fighting, puttana! ” he barks.

This time, I do as he says. The thin man turns around and gestures at the fat man to bring me in. He sees my face and his eyes bulge out.

Angry words in Italian are exchanged. Really wish I had paid attention to the YouTube language guide, I think.

And before I realize what has happened, the thin man pulls out his gun and shoots the fat man in the head.

Blood splatters against my face and my ears hurt from the proximity of the noise. The thin man grabs me before the fat man’s corpse can drag me down with him.

“My name is Armando,” the thin man says. “Armando Inserra, un capo della Ferrata . I will not hurt you unless you give me a reason to. Understand?”

He pushes his gun, the tip still hot from the shot, into my back and gives it a shove to force my feet to move. I glance at the ruined face of the dead man on the ground and fight back the urge to vomit as I take one trembling step after another towards the building.

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask him, hoping that he might answer me.

“We are waiting,” he replies. “Our ride is almost here.”

Ride?

And then I hear it. A rhythmic thump-thump-thump sound rises in the air from the distance, growing louder and louder.

Armando drags me along behind him and around the rows of buildings. The thump-thump-thump sound is unmistakable now. We round the corner and I see a helicopter waiting for us.

But that’s not what sets my heart racing.

There’s something familiar about how everything looks.

When I see the light from a single small control tower in the distance, and look down at the ground painted with white lines, realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

This is literally the same airstrip Konstantin brought me to.

Armando gives my back another prod with his gun to force me into the helicopter, forces a helmet over my head, and pulls the microphone down in front of my mouth. A crackle sounds in my ear, and I hear his voice—tinged with mechanical static—echoing in my ear as he speaks.

“Seatbelt,” he says. “We arrive in three hours.”

Without bothering to wait for me, he yanks on a lever next to him. A green light comes on, and the helicopter suddenly lurches upwards. My stomach presses tightly to my body as gravity shifts as I fumble with the buckle, and I’m reminded of what Konstantin did to me on the day of our photoshoot.

But this isn’t the same.

Not by a long shot.