Chapter 4
JULIET
Iglanced at the screen.
Egor’s name appeared on the screen. He was calling.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
Of all the people who could have called at that moment, I was oddly grateful it was him.
I answered.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about today.”
His voice carried its usual easy warmth, followed immediately by an exaggerated sigh.
“The picnic?”
I closed my eyes.
I’d forgotten completely.
Egor laughed before I could answer.
“I knew it.”
“I didn’t forget,” I lied weakly.
“You absolutely forgot.”
“I’ve had... a complicated afternoon.”
His teasing softened.
“Everything okay?”
I hesitated.
There wasn’t a chance I could explain any of this over the phone.
Not about the trust fund and the conditions attached to it.
Not about the complications surrounding the inheritance or the resentment our relatives already harbored after learning they had been left with nothing.
“I’ll tell you another time.”
A brief silence followed.
Then he let it go, exactly as I’d expected he would.
“Fair enough.”
His cheerful tone returned.
“Well, everyone else is already here. We’re at the private meadows overlooking the lake. If you don’t show up soon, I’m stealing your share of the food.”
Despite everything weighing on me, I found myself laughing quietly.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
“You’ve become insufferable.”
“I’ve always been insufferable.”
That earned another reluctant smile. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, I simply stared at the darkened screen.
Egor had become one of the few uncomplicated parts of my life.
Three months earlier, we’d met through mutual friends at a charity fundraiser. Unlike so many others, he had never seemed intimidated by my family’s reputation or overly fascinated by it. He treated me like an ordinary woman instead of the daughter of a Bratva leader.
That alone made him refreshing.
Most friendships in my life eventually unraveled.
The men usually mistook kindness for invitation and wanted something more than friendship.
Others quietly drifted away after realizing what came with knowing a Sokolov.
Bodyguards. Rumors. Danger.
Egor had stayed.
Whether out of stubbornness or genuine affection, I still wasn’t entirely sure.
I checked the time.
Six o’clock.
Exactly when the picnic was supposed to begin.
I sighed and pushed myself to my feet.
Perhaps a few hours surrounded by ordinary conversations would be enough to silence the chaos in my head.
Leaving the room, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom.
The house felt unusually empty.
Even the staff moved quietly after everything that had happened.
Inside my room, I stopped in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the wardrobe door.
The woman staring back at me looked exhausted.
My cream silk blouse was still neatly tucked into my tailored charcoal trousers. I’d chosen the outfit that morning because it felt appropriate for lawyers and condolences, not outdoor picnics.
Normally I’d change.
Today I couldn’t summon the energy.
“It’ll do,” I murmured to my reflection.
Running a brush quickly through my hair, I touched up my lipstick more out of habit than vanity, grabbed my handbag and keys, and headed downstairs.
The evening air greeted me the moment I stepped outside.
Cool. Fresh.
Far easier to breathe than the suffocating atmosphere inside the house.
My car started with a familiar purr.
As I pulled through the estate gates, Florida’s evening traffic unfolded before me in ribbons of headlights and glowing storefronts.
Usually driving helped clear my thoughts.
Not tonight.
Every red light became another opportunity for my mind to return to the same impossible conclusion.
Romeo Flynn.
My future husband.
The words still felt absurd.
Then came Yarina’s face.
The fury. The tears.
The threat.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
Streetlights blurred across the windshield as I followed the familiar route to the park where the picnic was being held.
Then—
A deafening truck horn tore through the evening.
My head snapped toward the intersection.
A massive tractor-trailer was hurtling through the red light.
It wasn’t slowing down.
The trailer suddenly jackknifed, folding sharply behind the cab before skidding sideways across the rain-slick asphalt. The screech of twisting metal split the air.
For one frozen heartbeat, all I could see was a towering wall of steel racing straight toward me.
Instinct took over.
I yanked the steering wheel hard to the left.
My tires screamed across the pavement as the car lurched sideways. The trailer swept so close to my passenger side that the violent rush of air rocked the entire vehicle.
Somehow...
It missed me.
My sedan shot over the curb instead, bounced across the grassy verge, and slammed into a low concrete barrier. Metal shrieked against stone as a shower of sparks exploded outside my window.
The steering wheel bucked violently beneath my hands.
I fought to keep control.
The car skidded another several yards before shuddering to a bone-rattling stop only a few feet from a cast-iron lamppost.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move.
My heart pounded so violently I could hear it in my ears.
My hands remained locked around the steering wheel, trembling uncontrollably.
A single second.
One delayed reaction.
That trailer would have folded my car in half.
It would have crushed the driver’s side.
It would have killed me.
I closed my eyes briefly, forcing myself to inhale.
Then exhale.
Years of growing up in a Bratva household had taught me how to react under pressure before fear had the chance to take over.
Tonight, those instincts had saved my life.
“That was too close,” I whispered hoarsely.
The words had barely left my lips when the driver’s door was ripped open.
I gasped.
A man stumbled toward the opening, nearly collapsing against the frame before throwing himself inside my car.
The passenger seat dipped beneath his weight.
The smell hit me immediately.
The unmistakable smell of fresh blood, heavy and metallic.
Dark crimson soaked through his black shirt, dripping steadily onto the cream leather upholstery.
Deep cuts marked both forearms, and a jagged wound stretched across one side of his face, blood trailing down his jaw and disappearing beneath his collar.
He slammed the passenger door shut with obvious effort.
“Drive.”
The command came low and rough, strained by pain but leaving no room for argument.
I turned to him in disbelief.
“What are you doing? Who are—”
“Drive.”
Not louder. Just colder.
The kind of command that expected obedience.
His head turned sharply toward the rear window, scanning the empty street behind us.
He wasn’t panicking.
He was hunting.
Every muscle in his body remained coiled despite the blood pouring from his wounds.
There was something almost animalistic about the way he watched the darkness.
When he looked back at me, his eyes were hard enough to make my pulse skip.
“I won’t ask again.”
For one reckless second, anger overpowered my fear.
Who did this man think he was?
He had just invaded my car, covered it in blood, and was barking orders as though he owned it.
Then he spoke again.
“Move, woman.”
There it was.
A faint Irish lilt beneath the deep, commanding voice.
Something about it tugged painfully at the edge of memory.
It sounded...
Familiar.
I couldn’t place it.
Not yet.
“O-Okay.”
My fingers shook as I shifted into gear.
The damaged car lurched forward, pulling away from the curb.
Beside me, the stranger grunted in pain, one hand pressed tightly over a deep wound in his opposite arm. Blood seeped between his fingers, running down his wrist before dripping onto the center console.
I swallowed hard.
Everything about him screamed danger.
Not ordinary danger.
Mafia danger.
I forced myself to focus on the road.
His breathing became heavier with every passing minute.
“What direction?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he kept watching the mirrors.
I spotted the illuminated sign of the nearest hospital several blocks ahead.
Without thinking, I flicked on my indicator and steered toward it.
“Where the hell are you going?”
His voice cracked like a whip.
“The hospital.” I didn’t take my eyes off the road. “You’re losing too much blood.”
“No.”
“You need a doctor.”
“I said no.”
His hand shot out, gripping my wrist with surprising strength despite his injuries.
The sudden contact made me flinch.
“Take the next U-turn.”
“Listen—”
“Now.”
Every instinct told me not to argue.
His grip tightened just enough to make his point before he released me.
“Warehouse Six.” His breathing hitched. “Shadow Bay Docks.”
He paused, swallowing against the pain.
Even injured, every order carried absolute authority.
I hesitated only briefly before turning the wheel.
Growing up around organized crime had taught me one lesson better than any other.
When a wounded man with that kind of presence gave an order...
...you obeyed first and asked questions later.
The city lights gradually gave way to the deserted industrial district.
Warehouses lined both sides of the road like silent concrete giants, their rusted loading bays swallowed by darkness.
Inside the car, the stranger’s condition worsened.
His breathing became shallow.
His complexion noticeably paler.
He reached unsteadily into his jacket, fumbling for his phone.
His blood-slick fingers refused to cooperate.
The device slipped once.
Then again.
A frustrated curse escaped his lips.
Without thinking, I leaned across the center console.
“Let me.”
His fingers closed around my arm with startling force.
Even injured, his grip was like a vise, crushingly firm and impossible to escape.
I winced.
“Get your hands off me,” I snapped, trying to pull free.
For a heartbeat, he held on, his jaw tightening as though sheer willpower alone kept him conscious.
Then his fingers loosened.
A low grunt escaped him as he shoved the passenger door open and forced himself out of the car.
He managed one unsteady step.
Then another.