Chapter 3 - Valentin #2
The minute we’ve got each other’s contacts saved on our phones, she glances at her watch and sighs. “I should probably head to the office. Sunday or not, these reports won't write themselves, and there are some files I need from my desk.”
“Seriously? You’re heading into your office on a Sunday?” I ask, impressed. She’s dedicated, that’s for sure.
“Unfortunately,” she sighs and stands, gathering her things. “Got to keep the lights on, you know?”
“Let me walk you,” I offer as I stand too. “Which way are you headed?”
“Oh, my office? It's only a few blocks.”
“I'm headed that direction anyway,” I lie smoothly. “If you don't mind the company.”
The spring air is crisp as we walk, and I find myself slowing my pace to match hers, in no rush to end this. Her shoulder occasionally brushes against my arm, and each touch sends a jolt through me that I haven't felt since... ever, actually.
“So what do you do, exactly?” she asks as we walk. “You've heard all about my business, but you've been pretty vague about yours.”
“Import/export,” I answer with the standard cover. “Family business. Not nearly as interesting as marketing.”
“I doubt that,” she laughs. “But I get it. Some people don't like talking about work.”
If she only knew what my “work” entailed. She’d run for the hills.
We reach the corner of her building, and that’s when I put on my sunglasses, not wanting to be recognized in case any of the Zakharov men are around, and she turns to me with that smile that does dangerous things to my insides.
“This is me,” she says, gesturing to the glass doors when we approach. “So, I’ll see you soon?”
There's hope in her voice that makes me want to promise her the world.
“Oh, now that I have your number, you can count on it.” I smile at her. “Enjoy your reports.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes and laughs that airy, light, carefree laugh again before giving me a friendly wave and heading inside.
But the minute she's out of sight, I don’t leave. I cross the street to my new surveillance spot, one I discovered when I realized that parking my car in the same spot every day wasn’t exactly a good idea.
The café across the street has the perfect view of her office on the second floor, all of which I can see thanks to the fact that she never pulls her blinds down, and those windows are huge. I ordered a coffee and took a table by the entrance.
I sip my coffee and keep my eye on her office. She's just settling in, looking around for files in her drawers.
Then, she gets down to work, and a solid half hour passes by.
“You want anything, hun?” One of the waitresses saunters over. I know they frown upon customers who sit on a cup of coffee for ages, so to keep my spot, I order a sandwich.
“You want fries with that, hun?”
That’s when I notice three suspicious-looking men, broad-shouldered and wearing suits in the day, entering the building. I look closer, and one of them turns around to survey the street, and that’s when I notice the knife scar across his jawline.
These men? They aren’t just businessmen working on a Sunday. Everything about them screams Zakharovs.
My blood runs cold when I see them heading toward the stairs.
“Hun?”
“Sorry, what?”
“You want fries with that?” the waitress asks again.
I grab my wallet, my heart rate accelerating. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe they’re just regular folks, but Gela’s all alone in her office, and none of her other employees are there. I need to go check out the scene, and if there’s no trouble, I’ll leave without bothering her.
“That’ll be all,” I say, and slam a twenty on the table, before heading out through the door. The moment I’m outside, I pull out my binoculars for a clearer picture and slide through all the windows on the building to see what the men are up to.
That’s when I see them, entering her office.
My hands begin to shake, a flare of protectiveness overcoming every sense.
Maybe they’re clients, a small voice in my head cautions. I can’t just go storming in there without cause. Then she’ll certainly run for the hills.
I watch Gela stand with a smile on her face as she talks. But within seconds, she begins to look confused, wary.
One of the men, the biggest of the lot, moves closer to her, saying something that makes her take a step back.
Her smile falters, and Scarface closes the blinds.
That’s when I pull my cap down low over my face and run.
I'm moving before I make the conscious decision. I run across the street and pull out an employee badge I’d had one of my men steal weeks ago, just in case we needed it during our surveillance.
I shove it in the guard’s face without looking and run up the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator.
Once I’m on the second-floor landing, I pull out my gun and keep it safe in one hand, walking down the hall as quietly as I can.
I bend the corner for Gela’s office, and that’s when I hear the voices. Gela’s cleared of all.
Her voice sounds strained. Stressed. My heart beats faster from anger alone. Who the fuck do these men think they are, walking in and scaring the hell out of her?
I’ll have them all for this, if it’s the last thing I do.
“—don't understand what financial reports you're talking about,” she's saying. “I just handle the marketing for—”
“Your investment depends on it.” Someone cuts her off. “The man who funds your little start-up is a powerful man, and to keep staying here, you need to hand us a list of all your clients and billings.”
I press my back against the wall outside her office, straining to hear.
“Listen, please,” Gela insists, her voice stronger now, angry. “My company has to maintain client privacy. If the funder has concerns, he can talk to me directly instead of sending—”
“The funder doesn't waste time with little girls like you,” another man says, his voice chillingly soft.
“I also know for a fact that I’m not a fool.
Why would the funder even want those financials?
What business is it of his? And if he did, ask him to drop me an email,” she fires back, her voice angrier than before.
“I’ve entertained you enough, and I’m done.
I tried being polite, but if you don’t leave now, I’ll be forced to call the police. ”
There's a moment of silence, then a small gasp from Gela that makes my blood boil.
I risk a glance around the corner. Scarface has his gun out, and it’s pointed straight at Gela's chest.
And that’s when I understand what this is. A protection scam. The bloody Zakharov men have set this up to scare the hell out of her, and in time, they’ll only escalate the violence until she’ll have no choice but to pay them protection money.
And the client list? They’ll find dirt. They’ll threaten to ruin her reputation, her life.
This is only the start. They’re slowly pulling her into their hooks.
“I…I don’t know where the financials are. My accountants are off today,” she says, and I can hear the tears she’s holding back. “Please, if you could come back tomorrow.”
“Like hell,” Scarface says, cocking his gun.
And something in me snaps.
I step around the corner and raise my gun. “Put it down.”
Just as the men turn, I shoot off into the chest of the man holding the gun in the first place. He cries as he falls, and I know he won’t survive the shot.
He crumbles to the ground just as another turns his gun on me, but I put a bullet between his eyes before he can fire.
The third one lunges for Gela, using her as a shield, his own weapon pressed against her temple.
“Yuri. What the fuck are you doing here?” he spits as he recognizes me, even though I have no idea who he is. Clearly, Trifon was right to keep an eye on the Zakharovs because they’ve been watching us too.
As for these guys, they’re just low-lying Zakharov scum vying for trouble and a little extra cash. I simply need to figure out their angle with Gela.
Gela's eyes widen as she stares at me, her eyes filled with fear as they travel down to the gun I now hold, then to the body lying on her right.
She looks terrified, not just of the situation and these men, but of me. I hate seeing her like this. I wish I could explain, but now’s not the time.
“Let her go,” I say calmly despite the rage boiling inside me. “There’s no need to involve her in whatever racket you have going on.”
He tightens his grip on Gela, making her wince. “She’s in this building. We run this fucking building and everyone in it. Back off, Yuri.”
“Last chance,” I warn, stepping closer. “Let. Her. Go.”
He starts to back toward the door, dragging Gela with him. “I'm walking out of here. With her. Or I paint the walls with her—”
I don't even let him finish, that threat turning my anger to a level of beast I haven’t experienced before. I take aim right for his knee and just as he lets go of Gela with a howl to clutch it, I shoot him straight in the head.
Gela screams, scrambling away from the body, blood splattered across her white shirt.
I move quickly, grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet. “We need to go. Now.”
“What—who—” She's hyperventilating, staring at the bodies with horror. She looks like she might be sick, and I have to remind myself that this is probably the first time in her life she’s heard a gunshot, let alone seen a man die.
But right now, we’re on a leash, and I need to get her out of there, no matter how much of a shock she’s in. We can’t just loiter around.
From past experience, I know how quickly things can escalate with the Zakharovs. Just last month, they shot one of our men in the head the second he walked into one of their bars. He’d wandered in by mistake, and they killed him anyway.
I don’t want to wait around for some trigger-hungry Zakharov lackey.
“There’s no time,” I cut her off, checking the hallway to see if any other men are loitering around. “We need to go before more come.”
I drag her by the wrist toward the emergency exit, but she tries to pull away from me. “Let me go!” she screams. “What the hell is happening? Who are you? You…you killed those men in there.”
I tighten my grip on her wrist and pull her closer, forcing her to look me in the eye. “If I hadn’t killed them, they would have killed you. Don’t you get it, Gela? You have to trust me. If you stay here, you’ll die.”
“I…I’m going to call the police,” she tries to threaten me, her eyes welling with tears of panic. “Please, Valentin…or whatever your name is…you have to let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I won’t. You can run away and hide. I won’t say a word. I’ll say I don’t know who killed those men and…”
She’s rambling. Panicking and rambling. She’s begging, and I hate to see her beg for this.
Just then, I hear the elevator’s machinery move. Someone’s going up, or down. Someone could be coming right this way.
If outnumbered, we’re fucked.
We need to get out of here, and I see no other way than to take her against her will, if she won’t move. So I wrap my arm around her waist and half-carry, half-drag her fighting body through the emergency exit. Her protests die the moment we hear men running down the hallways.
“There…there are more of them?” she whispers with urgency, the panic finally forcing her to move with her own two feet.
“Yes.” I push her down the stairs ahead of me and quietly close the door behind us. “And they won't stop. Now run.”