Page 113 of Baby for the Bratva King

I stand up as Felix and his friend cause a blood bath.

Fleur yanks me back down, my back scraping the headstone. “No. I’m not losing you.”

“Grill me another time. There’s a way we can win.”

Fleur gestures to the massacre happening a few meters away. “I think we already are.”

“Not while father is over there, maybe recording the entire thing.”

“Shit,” panics Fleur. “You think?”

I glance over my shoulder again, noting the pointed hood—still no movement. “Let me get back to you on that.”

I shoot up and leg it across the graveyard. This footage could destroy Felix, and then what will I be left with? An even bigger hole in my heart than before?

Felix tracked me down here. He’s risking his life for me—and the life of his friend. News is hot at the moment. Felix would be foolish to cause a scene like this in the middle of a scandal, and yet here he is, knocking my father’s men out like dominos.

I approach my father, waiting for the hood to jerk my way, for him to notice me. But he seems to have turned into a statue.

And then I see light emitting from his hands and barrel straight over there, knocking the device out of his grasp when he least expects it.

“Saskia,” he grows, standing up, taking several steps back.

“Oh, what would you be without your screens or your marathons?”

My father takes one look at me, one look at the blood bath, and sprints.

I charge straight after him. “That’s it, put your training to use.”

My lungs burn up, pulse beating erratically in my chest. I should really train cardio more.

My father keeps running, black cloak lifting behind him.

I slow down, my legs seizing up. My foot rolls over crumpled stone, and then I’m down, catching my breath… until the stones hit me with a bout of inspiration.

I grab a handful and shoot back to my feet, going again. I focus on extending my arm behind me, and I throw the stones again and again until I hit gold.

My father growls, interrupted for a few seconds—but that is all the time I need to catch up to him.

Now in arm’s reach, I launch one final stone right into the back of his head, and he falls to his knees, wincing.

A window of opportunity opens. While my father sees to his very minor casualty, I slide my hand into my pocket, retrieving my phone.

While he’s still turned the other way, I quickly unlock my phone and navigate over to the voice notes app, hitting record.

It’s go time.

“Aren’t you going to clean up the grave you tried burying me alive in?”

“My men will take care of that.”

“And how exactly did you acquire these ‘men?’”

My father rubs the back of his neck, standing up. “Connections. Every leader needs his soldiers.”

“An honest leader would only need himself.”

“There are no honest leaders.”