He tugged the lapel of his jacket aside so I could see the black grip of what had to be a handgun tucked into a holster under his arm. Then he raised his brows to make sure I understood, because I’d obviously been a little slow on the uptake.
Nodding carefully, I settled back on the stool.
“Good girl,” he said.
I’d been too distracted before to notice that this was not a guy who’d walked into a bar to flirt. Too self-absorbed in my personal pity party to be suspicious when he took an immediate interest in me. But everything was clicking now.
The reason his suit was so tight was because he was packing a lot of muscle under there. Alotof muscle. His choice of vodka—a very obvious Russian brand—and the fact that he’d just flashed a weapon at me were all obvious signs: he worked for the Bratva.
Which meant that he was sitting next to me for a reason.
And it couldn’t be a good one.
Adrenaline rushed through me, and I could feel my armpits start to prickle with nervous perspiration. It wasn’t just my life at stake right now—it was my baby’s. Not to mention, my entire family. I had no idea what this guy wanted, and no idea how to handle him. I was fucking terrified. But I knew panicking wouldn’t accomplish anything.
Luckily, I was well practiced at disguising my feelings, navigating stressful situations, and keeping my composure around powerful men. And beyond the mandatory etiquette lessons that had been forced on me as a child, I’d spent years honing my survival skills.
My instincts quickly took over.
Rolling my eyes theatrically at him, I said, “Fine. You win. Why don’t you get another drink and grab us a booth? I’m going to the ladies’ room,” slurring my words just enough to seem convincing.
Before he could respond, I got up, making a point to stumble a little on my way across the room, knowing that he was watching me. I had to appear drunk, like someone who might take an extra-long time in the bathroom.
But the moment the bathroom door closed, before the stall was even locked behind me, I had my phone in my hand.
I tried to think fast. Who could I call? My first thought was Stefan, but he was in another state and he’d just had a fucking baby. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin his new daddy glow by telling him that some meathead from the Russian mob had cornered me in a bar.
So I called Luka instead. He wasn’t in the same state either, but maybe he would know what to do. He’d definitely been in a lot more shady situations in his life than Stefan ever had.
“Hewhat?” my brother practically shouted when I told him about the guy at the bar and how he’d flashed his gun at me.
“He kept it inside his jacket,” I told him. “I’m fine.”
“Jesus, nothing about this is fine!” Luka said. “We need to get you out of there. Can you call the cops?”
I sighed. “Even if they show up in time to arrest the guy, which I doubt, it’ll just make things worse for us later. They’ll keep sending people. It’s themob, Luka.”
“Okay okay okay,” he said. “We can figure something out. Let’s just think this through.”
“Luka, we don’t have time! I can’t hide in this bathroom forever—he’s bound to get suspicious and come after me. There’s nothing you can do from Chicago.”
We both knew it. So instead of listening to him spitball ideas, I made him promise not to tell Stefan and then hung up and scrolled through my contacts, looking for the only other person I knew in the city who wouldn’t be put out at having to rescue me out of the blue. Andrew.
“Emzee, what’s up?” Andrew asked when he picked up the phone.
“I’m in trouble,” I told him. “Like, code red, nine-one-one emergency-level trouble, except I can’t actually call the police.”
“Okay,” he said calmly. “Where are you?”
I couldn’t give him the specific details—i.e., that I was being followed by the Russian mob—but I did tell him which bar I was at and that a real creep had been hitting on me and waspossiblyarmed and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“So I need to get out of here, stat,” I finished.
Thankfully, Andrew had a plan.
“I know the bar you’re at. There’s a back door past the bathrooms that opens into the alley, so you need to sneak out that way and then hang a right toward Metropolitan. About three doors down, you’ll see a place called Café Cuba that has a rear entrance. Grab a table in there, by the kitchens, and I’ll text you when I pull into the alley. You can duck right into my back seat.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
