8. Cady
Cady
Shopping bags dig into my fingers as we empty my trunk, their thin handles biting into my skin in a way.
Misha said he’d help, and he did.
For about thirty seconds.
Long enough to grab the lightest bags and feel good about himself. He’s a step ahead of me, with one hand holding a couple of the lighter bags and the other occupied with his phone.
I take in the easy confidence in the way he walks, like everything around him is already handled because it usually is. Men like him don’t worry about consequences. They inherit protection, step into power that was built for them, and spend the rest of their lives assuming it will hold.
But I’m not his bitch. I’m just someone passing through his orbit just long enough to get what I need.
Then I’m done.
“Do you want to grab the rest of these?” I shift the weight in my hands. “Or are we pretending this is equal effort?”
He glances back long enough to smirk, like I said something cute. “You’ve got it, babe.”
I consider throwing the smallest bag at the back of his head, just to see if I can knock that expression off his face.
Instead, I stop near the curb, waiting for the valet, adjusting my grip before setting one of the heavier bags down so I don’t drop everything.
“Babe, did you grab my Gucci loafers?”
I stare at him.
“No.” An edge slips into my voice.
“Will you grab them for me?”
A quiet breath leaves me before I can stop it. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You are unbelievable.”
He grins like this is part of the dynamic instead of a glaring example of who he is.
I would not date Misha Makarov if someone paid me.
“I make up for it in other ways,” he says easily, already half gone again, attention back on his phone. “I bought you that Prada dress. You owe me.”
It comes out naturally, like everything has a price.
Like I do.
There’s no point in responding.
He isn’t forever. He isn’t even close.
“Miss Gallagher.”
Paul’s voice cuts in from my left as I open the car door, and I glance over to find him stepping toward us.
Mid-sixties, maybe a little older, but sharper than most men I deal with daily.
My favorite valet.
The only one who asks how my day was and actually listens to the answer.
He takes one look at the situation—at me juggling a load, and Misha barely paying attention—and springs to action. “I’ll take these up for you. No reason for you to carry all that alone.”
I open my mouth to tell him I can help, that he doesn’t have to, but stop short.
I don’t notice anything wrong until the sound hits my ears.
It’s not loud, just a sharp, clean rupture that cuts through the quiet of the afternoon.
My car window shatters inward, and I freeze with my hand still halfway inside the car while my brain is trying to catch up to what my eyes are seeing.
“Inside. Now.” Paul steps toward me, and his hand finds my arm and pulls me back from the car.
There’s no hesitation.
I let him guide me without arguing, my feet catching up a second later as he steers me toward the entrance of my high-rise apartment building.
Misha moves then, but not toward me.
He walks ahead of us, toward the building,
It takes me back, even though it shouldn’t. Misha is all about himself.
“Keep moving, Miss,” Paul says under his breath. “Almost there.”
The glass doors come into view, and he doesn’t let me slow down or turn back.
We’re inside before I process everything. The quiet hits differently in the lobby.
Paul doesn’t let go until we’re a few steps in, easing his grip just enough to give me space without stepping away completely.
“Stay here.” He’s already turning back toward the doors.
“Artem,” Misha says, and I turn to see him speaking into his phone.
“Someone shot at me.”
I can’t help but gape at him in disbelief. The bullet was closer to me than anyone.
“Just now,” he leers. “No… they missed. …I need you here now.”
So that’s his solution.
Call Artem.
Let someone else handle it.
I watch him for a second before my focus drifts past him toward the doors, and to the car I can’t see anymore.
The shot.
The glass.
The way it broke.
Clean.
Deliberate.
“Yeah, I am. …She’s fine, dude. Someone just tried to assassinate me.”
A dry, disbelieving laugh presses at the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
Of course, that’s how he sees it.
Thank God I’m not emotionally attached to him. If I were, this would be the moment it cracked.
I’m the one who was standing there.
I’m the one who felt the glass.
I’m the one who could’ve…
I cut that thought off before it finishes.
Because it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that this wasn’t random.
And as Misha keeps talking, pacing, and making it about himself, I realize something that settles in my bones a lot heavier than the shock ever could.
That bullet wasn’t meant to miss.
“I didn’t fuck that guy’s girl,” Misha barks out through my thoughts. “It was his sister.”
I’m going to kill him in his sleep.
“Does it matter, Artem? I was almost killed. …No, I won’t calm down. …This is bullshit. I’m going out shopping with my girl and… of course, I fucking do. She’s right here.”
He’s pathetic.
Misha has no one to call but his brother. It just shows how much power he doesn’t wield. He just reaps the rewards of his brother’s criminal career.
“Why would I do that? Are you fucking kidding me?” Misha rolls his eyes. “See you then,” Misha says before hanging up and walking toward me. “You alright, babe?”
No.
You’re a clown. I can’t stand you. I don’t think I could stomach sleeping with you again after this, and what the hell was all that?
“Caitlin,” he presses, reaching for me and gently grabbing my biceps. “Are you alright?”
I bob my head just so he bugs off. “Yeah… I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Wh—” Misha reaches for my face, and when I think he’s going to wipe it away, he pulls his hand back.
“We need a doctor,” he announces to anyone who will listen. “Right now.”
People glance over.
A receptionist straightens.
A security guard shifts his stance.
But no one moves fast enough for him. And that’s when I realize something I should’ve already known.
Misha doesn’t know how to handle this part. The blood, the fear, the freakout, and the consequences.
He just knows how to call someone who does.
Within seconds, he’s calling Artem back.
“We’ve got a problem.”
I step back. Not from the situation, but from him. I don’t want his hands on me anymore. I don’t want his voice or him looking at me.
He’s disgusting.
He’s a boy.
I wipe my face carefully with the edge of my fingers, catching a smear of blood.
But I don’t feel shaken, not as I should.
I feel violated and watched.
Misha keeps talking and pacing, but I stop listening. His voice blends into the background noise of the lobby, too loud, unfocused, and far too removed from what just happened.
Because he thinks it’s about him.
“Move her.”
My body reacts to his voice before my brain catches up, tension pulling through me as I turn toward it.
Artem crosses the lobby like he was always going to end up here, like the timing isn’t strange, convenient, or worth questioning. There’s nothing rushed about him, and that sets something uneasy in my chest.
Men who arrive like that usually aren’t reacting.
They’re executing.
For a second, I just watch him. The dark hair that looks like he ran a hand through it on the way over, the way his shoulders carry his size without effort. He’s built solid, controlled strength in every line of him, and there isn’t a single part that feels accidental.
His eyes move first to Misha, then to me, then to the faint smear of blood I just wiped from my cheek.
“Move her.” His tone is rougher this time.
Misha blinks. “What?”
Artem doesn’t look at him when he answers. “Unless you want her bleeding in front of half the building, move her upstairs.”
Misha straightens beside me. He doesn’t like being told what to do, but right now, he doesn’t have a better option.
“We should get her checked first.” His hand hovers at my arm. “She might need stitches.”
“She needs to not stand here.” Artem glances at him, his expression flat in a way that doesn’t invite pushback. “You called me to handle it. Let me handle it.”
The difference between them couldn’t be clearer if it tried.
Misha reacts.
Artem decides.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself, then reach into my bag for my keys, because arguing right now is pointless.
The sting along my cheek pulses again, reminding me this is real. It happened, and I’m still standing in the middle of it.
We move together without another argument, the elevator doors sliding open just as we reach them.
Misha steps in first this time, like he’s trying to reclaim control, and I follow, aware of Artem right behind me as the doors close.
Misha pulls his phone back out. “I’m calling for backup. I’m not taking chances.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Artem mutters, huddled in the corner with his arms crossed.
“For her.” He glances at me like I’ve said something ridiculous. Moments ago, he ran from me when a gunshot erupted. “You just got shot at.”
“No,” I correct, “my car did.”
Admitting that I’m on someone’s hitlist right now doesn’t sit well with me at all.
“Cady—”
“He’s right,” Artem cuts in smoothly. “Someone doesn’t like you.”
My nostrils flare because this isn’t funny. He shouldn’t be here.
“I’m glad you find this amusing.” I turn to face the elevator doors. “You can leave now.”
“No need to get into your feelings,” he mocks. “Misha wants to protect you.”
Neither of them do. And I don’t need either one of these men.
“I’m the daughter of Colin Gallagher,” I grind out. “I don’t need bravta’s assistance.”
A small scoff leaves Artem’s lips. “Did you hear that, brother? She’s too good for Volkov’s help.”
Misha steps closer to me. For what, I don’t know, but the ruse of me being into him after tonight… I’m not sure I’m going to be able to follow through.
“She didn’t mean it,” he mutters, touching the inside of my arm. “She’s upset.”
How was Artem here moments after the incident? We’re not even close to Volkov territory.
We’re in Gallagher.
This isn’t random.
And neither is him being here.
Misha turns. “You agree with that?”