Chapter 44
Cassandra
“You should really be using your turn signal, you know, they can pull you over for that shit,” I tease Ivan, earning a shake of his head and a soft tsk.
“If you say so,” I mutter, refocusing my attention on the study materials balanced in my lap.
“You should’ve seen Mikhail’s driving that night we came for you. I was half sure I’d die in that car.” He jokes, the lightest smile playing across his usually solemn face.
I look up at him, remembering the way he raced into my house, inserting himself into my own dangerous situation without a care for himself.
“Thank you, by the way. For helping me out that night. I owe you.”
“Nah, you don’t owe me anything. As far as I’m concerned, Mikhail has claimed you, and that makes you family.”
His words startle me for a moment. The word family has always had such a negative connotation in my life.
Growing up, “family” was an obligation that I was never in control of.
Something that forcibly coerced me and tied me down.
But the way Ivan uses it, like a chosen honor, makes my eyes water in alarm.
“The Bratva has been a lot of things, Cassandra. And I am sure it will be many more things after we’re gone.
But for Mikhail, for me…it always comes back to that choice.
It doesn’t matter who you came from. Only you get to decide who your community is, and once we claim you, we will always have your back. ”
The words hit me deep. What he’s so freely offering me right now is something I’ve never had. Something I never thought I could have. The idea that somehow, I stumbled across it in a filthy alley on 5th in the dead of night makes me feel like every piece was worth it.
“You’re my family too, Ivan,” I say softly. He spares me a glance, picking up on the emotion painted in my features, and gives me a small nod.
We’re silent for a few minutes, peacefully enjoying the drive, when I notice Ivan’s entire posture shift in his seat. I look around for the source, but nothing seems out of sorts.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
He checks the side mirror a few more times before responding.
“I think we’re being followed.” He says in a low, easy tone, and it takes me a second to catch on to his meaning.
“By who?” I ask, but then I see it. A dark, nondescript car was following close behind us. When I glance through the rear-view mirror, I catch sight of a second one, hovering further back on the other side.
Ivan flies down the exit ramp as I search my bag for my phone, pulling it free.
“Shit, no service here,” I say, discomfort growing in my stomach.
“I figured,” he murmurs back, pulling the car into a tight, fast turn down a random neighborhood road. Just when I’m sure we must’ve lost them, I hear the motor of cars racing behind us. They reemerge quickly, gaining speed.
“Shit,” Ivan whispers. Just as I look over to see what he’s reacting to, I realize exactly what’s going on. They’re boxing us in on either side.
And we’re headed straight for a dead end.
Fuck.
“Aim for tires.”
That’s all Ivan says before unstrapping the handgun from his thigh and dropping it into my lap.
For the briefest moment, I freeze, my brain not computing the insane situation.
But then my fingers wrap the familiar contours of the gun. Muscle memory alone has me clicking off the safety, and then I’m rolling down the window, aiming at the car behind us like I’ve successfully shot something other than the stationary practice dummy at the shooting range.
Take control, Cass.
My first few shots go wide.
I growl in frustration, bending further out the window.
Come on, Cass.
I take a breath, picturing Mikhail’s familiar hands wrapping around mine, guiding the shot. The barrel aligns with the front bumper. Then the wheel.
I exhale and squeeze the trigger.
Ivan makes a sharp turn, throwing me back into my seat, but not before I see the bumper of the car I aimed for sparking against the concrete, coming to a stop on the road.
“Hold on!” Ivan yells out seconds before we’re hit by the car on the left, violently jolting us to the side as Ivan spins the wheel to correct our path.
But then a third car rams us hard to the other side, and the wheels give out, our SUV skidding toward the nearby brick wall.
“Brace!” he says, throwing an arm protectively in front of my chest. All I can see is the brick wall closing in.
Closer and closer.
The first crack of the windshield.
And then my head smacks against something hard, and everything goes dark.