Prologue #7
Something else I don’t want to explain to my mother when I get home. I’m grateful my alpha started to come out of his rut by the thirty-hour mark, otherwise we might never have made it to my nest and I’d have a hell of a lot more to explain to Mia Kozlov.
I grab the all-black hoodie and lift it to my face, closing my eyes as I take in more of his scent before I pull it on over my head and hug it to my body.
Then I roll my eyes because he was right, it took over a decade and my very first real heat for me to truly become an omega, presenting at fourteen be damned.
I’ve never had an issue with my designation, I embraced it as soon as I knew, but according to most people, I don’t act like an omega.
I don’t really know what the fuck that means, but I’m assuming it’s because of how I’m built and what I do for a living to put it plainly.
Jail time for drug-running and illegal gambling, trafficking, arms deals and assault. I’ve done very little time for those things, less than I was supposed to, and I’ve never had a murder charge stick despite the bodies attached to my name. But this is the only life I’ve ever known.
And I’m the only omega in the family business, so I guess I turned out like this because I grew up in it.
But it’s always weird when it gets pointed out, and he likes to point it out.
Just like he said I didn’t start acting like a real omega until the last few months, and that was most likely because I’d been planning this specific trip the entire time.
Standing here with his hood pulled up over my head and the collar just over my nose, I can see what he means. I’ve never been more omega-ish than I have right now.
Oh well.
I don’t really care, not when I’m so fucking happy.
Filled with dread, but happy.
I walk to the kitchen and set myself up for a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter with a stupid, dreamy look on my face, while I play with the cigarette burn hole by the strings and breathe in my alpha’s scent like it’s fucking oxygen before I remember what he said.
I’m not particularly hungry, but I should eat.
After a few minutes of digging through the fridge, I settle on leftover pizza, eating it cold right out of the box.
Coffee and pizza isn’t exactly my first choice for a meal but it’ll do for now. I’d prefer not to pass out after the last few days, and this will make him happy because it’s more than the nothing he thinks I usually eat.
Deciding to do him one better, I grab a second piece and begin searching the room for my phone. I have no idea where it went but I think a selfie is in order to commemorate how well I listen to his command, even when it’s written down on paper.
Not to mention we both know it’s not going to last. The second we’re back together, I’ll be my alpha’s favorite brat once again.
“There you are, you little bastard,” I say with a grunt as I reach into the recliner, pulling my cellphone from the exposed springs underneath just as it vibrates in rapid succession.
I have no clue how it got there, and I’m not going to even bother figuring it out.
UNKNOWN: Get out.
That’s fucking weird.
I frown at the notification on my screen then quickly swipe to check the rest.
UNKNOWN: Get out.
UNKNOWN: Get out.
UNKNOWN: Get out.
UNKNOWN: Get out.
UNKNOWN: Get out.
UNKNOWN: Get out.
UNKNOWN: NOW
No sooner do I watch the last text come through than I hear breaking glass, seconds before the pizza in my hand explodes inches from my head. I immediately drop to the ground, abandoning my food in favor of searching for my gun.
I only brought one with me, I never leave home completely unarmed but I don’t generally need to be strapped to the teeth when I’m on a goddamn vacation.
Army crawling my way through the tiny living room, I quickly head to the bedroom, windows shattering overhead, pieces of the log cabin walls splintering as they’re pelted with bullets.
Shards of both rain down on me, following my direction as I crawl through the cottage, several things running through my mind as I do.
They have some sort of thermal imaging.
If they’re able to follow me so easily, it’s because they can see into my house on some level, otherwise they wouldn’t know which way I went.
There’s more than one shooter.
It’s subtle, and maybe it wouldn’t be caught by someone who hasn’t experienced it before, but nanoseconds after one bullet hits, another does, and it’s clear that it’s two shooters walking along the side of my fucking house next to each other.
That also means I'm most likely surrounded.
I know that’s what I’d do if I was the one planning a full-blown surprise execution.
A few in front to force my target out the back or side, and make sure more of my men were waiting, even going as far as to hide some in the woods in case they got past the initial firing squad.
That’s exactly what I’d do, and I’d put money on that being the case right now.
Which gives me a pretty good idea of who’s after me.
It’s a rival family.
I don’t know which, but I can say that for certain.
I thought Boris had made peace with the Contis.
Signed some stupid treaty between them after the last battle spilled over into a schoolyard full of children.
No one wants to see that happen. It hasn’t before, and I personally helped take care of our men who allowed it to go down and participate in it.
Could be the O’Boyles.
Unlikely, though. They don’t really give a shit about what we’re doing right now, and definitely not enough to start a war over the step-son of the head of the Volkov Bratva.
Aside from that, I have no fucking idea who would make a special trip all the way out here to kill me, but they are going to be sorely disappointed.
I have no goddamn intention of dying today.
Grabbing my wallet and gun from the side table, I check the clip, snatch the only other one I have, and shove both in the pocket of the hoodie while I stick the Glock in my waistband.
I continue toward my snow boots as the shooters stop to reload, grabbing them and heading toward the fireplace right before bullets rain down on me again.
I tug the boots on and lace them up, my heart pumping in my chest. My adrenaline has spiked and there is definitely a little concern for what’s going to happen next, but these fuckers have pissed me right off and that’s what I’m running with right now.
I crouch down inside the mouth of the brick, hoping it’s enough shelter for me to fire off a text of my own and just when I pull up my alpha’s name, I get one more from what has to be a burner phone.
UNKNOWN: Leave your phone and run.
What the fuck is going on?
This is goddamn bizarre.
It definitely isn’t the Gallos or O’Boyles if someone is warning me, but I haven’t been friends with anyone else even close to connected since before college.
Not that I have the fucking time to sit around and figure this shit out. For all I know, these assholes could have smoke bombs or grenades waiting for me.
I stare at the last text a little longer, trying to decide if this unknown number is friend or foe and whether or not I should listen to them.
Either way, I’m a sitting fucking duck and unless I want to make like Santa and hide in the goddamn chimney, I have to do something.
Looks like I’ll be running today.
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, channeling my anger into something more constructive that will help me get the fuck out of here, then I check my gun one more time to make sure it’s secure and do just that.
I start slithering through the cottage again, making my way toward my nest and the dummy panel inside. Once I have it open, I slide into the crawl space and follow it until the ground gets colder and harder, and I can start to smell fresh snow.
That’s cute.
There’s already a couple feet out there but if it recently dumped on us or is actively snowing right now, that’s going to make things a little trickier. Then again, would this be a real mafia hit if it wasn’t a gigantic pain in the ass?
The crawl space starts to take on the shape of the natural terrain, dipping and rolling along the hillier parts as I get further outside.
I have to slow down once I can see that it is, in fact, snowing fucking buckets because the space between the bottom slat and ground gets wider the closer I get to the far side of my bedroom and en-suite.
It could easily blow my cover but it also allows for me to get an idea of whether or not I was right about being completely surrounded.
I hate being fucking right.
There are four pairs of military grade snow boots pacing the back of the cottage, the two on the ends seemingly moving toward either side of my little house before coming back to the center to speak softly with the other two.
In Russian.
These asshats are speaking my native tongue so I’m right again when it comes to the Gallos and O’Boyles.
This is another Bratva, probably one going after Boris’ territory or something and making a play by taking me out.
That doesn’t really make sense, not when my step-dad has two of his own biological children that would probably make more of an impact, but whatever.
Maybe they assume I’m the safest option because even though he’s raised me and would most likely be upset about my death, it would be a different kind of statement to murder his flesh and blood.
One with very different results, I’m sure.