17. Lila
Lila
I stand in the middle of Bal Harbour Shops, staring at storefronts with names I can barely pronounce.
Gucci. Prada. Versace. The price tags make me laugh.
Who pays three thousand dollars for a shirt?
Ten grand for a purse. It seems ridiculous.
I think of the thousands of things I could do with that kind of money.
I wouldn’t be buying a purse.
“Mrs. Sokolova, where would you like to start?”
Mike, one of Maksim’s guards, hovers near me.
He’s built like a tank and has been following me around since we left the house.
Another one I’ve declared as George because his real name is a mouthful, is here, too, standing a few feet away and scanning the crowd like someone might jump out and attack me.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never been to a mall.”
Mike’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Never?”
“Never.” I feel heat creep up my neck. “We didn’t have money for this kind of thing.”
“Mr. Sokolov said to take you wherever you want. Buy whatever you want.” He gestures at the stores. “No limit.”
No limit. The words sound fake. I’ve never had “no limit” on anything in my life. Every purchase has always been calculated. Can I afford it? Do I need it? Will I have enough left over for food if I buy it?
“I don’t need much,” I say. “Maybe just a few things. Jeans. Some T-shirts.”
Mike looks pained. “Mrs. Sokolova, Mr. Sokolov specifically said to have you buy a new wardrobe. “
“I know what he said, but I don’t need designer clothes.” I look around at the fancy storefronts. “Isn’t there like a Wal-Mart or something?”
“Wal-Mart,” Mike repeats like I’ve just suggested we go dumpster diving.
“Or a thrift store. I love thrift stores.”
George smirks. “Boss said you might say that. He said to tell you that you’re representing him now. People will know who you are. You need to look the part.”
I want to argue, but I remember what Ava said by the pool. Maksim has a reputation to maintain. Apparently, I’m part of that now.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I’m not going to spend a fortune on a purse.”
We start with a store that looks slightly less intimidating than the others. The saleswoman zeroes in on us—or more specifically, on my bodyguards. They might as well put a flashing light over my head and announce that I’m someone worth guarding. Nobody notices girls like me.
“Can I help you?” Her tone is polite, but I can tell she’s wondering who let the trash in. She’s trying to figure out if I’m someone important or just a kid who wandered in by mistake.
“I need clothes,” I say. “Jeans. Shirts. Normal stuff.”
“Of course.” Her smile brightens. “What’s your budget?”
I glance back at Mike. He shakes his head. No budget.
“Um, I don’t really have one.”
Her smile lights up the whole damn place. “Wonderful. Let’s get you set up in a fitting room.”
For the next hour, she brings me clothes.
Jeans that fit properly instead of hanging off my hips.
Shirts that aren’t stained or faded. The fabrics are soft, and there aren’t any holes.
A leather jacket that makes me feel like a badass when I look in the mirror.
I’m getting the jacket. I’ve always wanted one.
I don’t know where I’ll wear it in Florida, but I need it.
“This is too much,” I tell Mike when the saleswoman steps away. “I don’t need all this.”
“Boss says you do,” he replies.
I try on a dress just to see what it feels like. It’s simple, black, and hits just above my knees. I’ve never worn a dress that I can remember. Mama said dresses were impractical. You can’t ride horses or work in dresses.
But looking at myself now, I don’t hate it.
“You look beautiful,” the saleswoman says when I step out.
I feel my cheeks burn. “Thanks.”
“Is this for a special occasion?”
“No. Just trying new things.”
We buy way more than I intended. Jeans, shirts, the leather jacket, two dresses I’ll probably never wear, tennis shoes, and a pair of sandals because Mike said I had to.
I get a pair of badass boots with silver buckles.
The total makes my head spin, but Mike just hands over Maksim’s black credit card without blinking.
At the next store, I find myself enjoying this. I pick out clothes I like, try them on, and if they fit, we buy them. No worrying about the price. No calculating how many meals this will cost me.
I feel like a princess. For just a little bit, I allow myself to play make-believe.
I’m at the register paying for a pair of riding boots when the woman behind the counter gasps.
“Oh, my God.” She stares at my left hand.
I look down at the ring Maksim put on my finger. The black diamond catches the light. I’m a little embarrassed by the monstrosity, but he tells me I have to wear it. It feels like a brand, like when we branded horses at the ranch.
“Is that...?” She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “Are you the new Sokolov wife?”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“The black diamond ring. That’s his signature. Everyone knows about it.” She’s practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh my God, you’re married to Maksim Sokolov!”
I glance at Mike, who’s suddenly very interested in a display of sunglasses.
“Um, yes?”
“I knew it!” She claps her hands together. “We’ve all been dying to know who he married. The rumors have been insane. Some people said it was a model. Others said it was a princess from a country no one has heard of.”
I force a smile. “Nope. Just me.”
Mike takes my bag while George carries the rest. They sandwich me between them as we walk.
I’m still riding the high of my shopping trip as we walk through the parking garage. My arms are loaded with bags—more clothes than I’ve owned in my life combined. Mike is carrying even more, and George trails behind us with the rest.
“This was fun,” I say to Mike. “Thank you for being patient with me.”
“It’s my job, Mrs. Sokolova.”
“You can call me Lila, you know.”
“I know.”
I smile. He’s not going to, but I had to try.
We’re twenty feet from the SUV when I hear footsteps. Before I can turn to see if someone is coming, a sharp pop echoes off the concrete.
George drops.
The thud his body makes startles me.
“Down!” Mike grabs me, his body covering mine as we hit the ground. Shopping bags scatter. My palms scrape against the rough concrete.
Mike is shouting in Russian. His gun is out, and he’s firing at something I can’t see. The sound is deafening in the enclosed space. My ears ring, and time slows.
I look at George. He’s not moving. Blood pools beneath his head, spreading across the concrete in a dark stain that’s growing too fast.
Oh God. Oh God, he’s dead.
My hands shake as I crawl toward him. I don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe I can help him or stop the bleeding. But when I reach him and see his eyes staring at nothing, I know it’s too late.
His gun is still in his holster.
I don’t think. I just act. My fingers close around the grip, and I pull it free. I’ve shot guns before. Mom made sure I knew how.
I hear footsteps running toward us. A man appears from behind a concrete pillar with his gun raised.
I lift George’s weapon and fire.
The recoil jolts through my arms. The shot goes wide, hitting the pillar behind him. But it’s enough to make him duck for cover.
Mike is up now, moving toward the threat. He fires twice. The man goes down.
“Stay down!” Mike orders me.
I’m exposed. I crawl toward a silver sports car and hide behind the tire that is way too small.
Another man appears. Then another. How many are there?
Mike takes one down, but the other gets a shot off. Mike staggers but doesn’t fall. He keeps firing.
I hear footsteps and heavy breathing behind me. I spin around just as someone grabs me from behind.
An arm wraps around my throat, cutting off my air. I drop the gun and use my hands to claw at the arm.
“Got you, little bitch,” a voice hisses in my ear.
I throw my head back, trying to connect with his face. He moves, and I only hit his shoulder with the back of my head. His arm tightens around my throat.
I can’t breathe. I can’t scream for Mike. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
Mike appears with his gun raised. “Let her go!”
“Fuck you!” The man holding me uses me as a shield, dragging me backward.
I hear more gunshots. Our driver—I don’t even know his name—comes running from where he was waiting with the vehicle. He can’t get a clear shot without hitting me.
My captor fires back.
The driver goes down with a scream, clutching his stomach.
I thrash harder, but the arm around my throat is like iron.
Mike is trying to get a shot, but we’re moving too fast. Suddenly, my body is thrown into an SUV. I land hard on the seat, and my head bounces off the opposite door. Pain explodes through my skull.
The door slams. The engine revs, and I’m thrown against the seat with the acceleration.
I push myself up, dizzy and disoriented. There are two men in the front seat. The one who grabbed me is in the back with me, and his gun is pointed at my chest.
“Stay down,” he orders.
I look out the window. We’re speeding through the parking garage, tires squealing as we take the corners too fast.
I see Mike running after us, but we’re too far ahead.
The SUV bursts out into daylight, merging into traffic. I hear horns blaring and people shouting.
This is it. They’ve got me. Whatever happens next is going to be bad. Really bad.
The man next to me is on his phone, speaking in a language I can’t understand.
I look at the door handle. We’re going at least thirty, weaving through traffic. If I jump, I might die.
But if I don’t jump, I’m dead anyway. Or worse.
I’ve been thrown from horses running faster than this. I’ve hit the ground hard before. I’ve survived worse.
That’s what I tell myself as my hand closes around the door handle.
The man sees what I’m doing and lunges for me.
I pull the handle and throw myself out.
The world becomes a blur of motion and pain. I hit the asphalt and roll. Something in my shoulder crunches. My head bounces off the pavement despite my attempt to tuck and roll.
I hear brakes screeching. Horns. Shouting.
Everything hurts. Every fucking inch. I feel like my skin has been peeled from my body.
I try to push myself up, but my left arm won’t cooperate. I look down and see it hanging at a wrong angle.
Dislocated or broken; I can’t tell.
I hear screeching tires followed by someone shouting. I’m so dizzy. I try to crawl away, but my arms and legs don’t feel like they belong to my body.
“Lila!”
I know that voice.
Hands grab me, and I’m lifted off the ground, cradled against a chest.
“Hold on,” Mike says. “I’ve got you.”
He’s running, with every footstep bouncing my head. I’m going to puke. I hear more gunshots behind us.
Another car door opens. I’m placed in the back seat as carefully as possible, but every movement sends fresh waves of agony through my shoulder.
“Go!” Mike shouts at whoever’s driving. “Go now!”
The car lurches forward. I’m pressed back against the seat, and my injured arm screams in protest.
Mike is in the back with me. I realize he’s bleeding—a dark stain spreading across his side.
“You’re hurt,” I croak out.
“I’m fine.”
I hear moaning from the front. The driver is slumped over in the front seat.
“Where’s George?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
Mike doesn’t respond. He just keeps pressure on his wound, his jaw clenched.
“Mike. Where’s George?”
“He didn’t make it.”
Mike leans forward and puts one bloody hand on the passenger’s. “Pavel, you with us?”
“Da,” comes the weak response. “I’m okay.”
He’s not okay. He needs a hospital.
The other man driving—where did he come from?
It doesn’t matter. Thinking hurts. I’m going to vomit.
“Almost there,” Mike says. “Just hold on.”
I close my eyes and focus on breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I’m alive. They saved me.
Again.