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“Mischa,” the man greets, his voice cold. “I have to admit that this is a surprise. I never thought I’d see the day when the pampered fucking prince would dare come crawling to me for lead. Who did you piss off this time? More Winthorps? Though I heard that the old man is gone. How’s that for fucking irony? Done in by his own—”
“Anders,” Mischa says over him, his tone equally cutting. “One would think thatyouweren’t begging to sell your shit tome. Is this it?” He nods curtly toward the open box.
“It’s pretty pricey for shit,” Anders remarks. He cuts his gaze over to me before returning his attention to the man by my side. His disinterest makes one thing certain, and my sigh nearly barrels me over: I’m not one of the items for sale. “But you need the guns, or you wouldn’t come to me. And,” he adds with a hollow laugh. “You must have pissed off Sergei, or you would get your goods from him. Unless…” He rubs his dirt-covered fingers along his chin. “Unless you’re trying to hide what you need the guns for. Ah, but concealing something from one of the ten heads. That would be against your fucking rules, wouldn’t it?”
“Enough.” Mischa’s voice rings out through the room, ripe with authority. “The girl has the money. Name your price, and I’ll take what you have now.”
“My price?” Anders laughs darkly. “Myprice, Mischa, is way more than what you could offer for a few fucking guns.”
“Oh?”
I taste the danger in Mischa’s tone, even before his body jars mine, conveying a silent command.Get ready.
“And what would that be?”
“Your head,” Anders says simply. The foreboding click of five guns cocking in unison bolsters the words. “It seems that the Winthorps have put a mighty big bounty on your head. From what I can tell, two have become one, and the remaining piece of shit wants you very, very badly, Prince.”
Robert Sr.?It’s almost funny how only now does it sink in, just what Robert’s death means. His father will be on the warpath, and he will most certainly not want to rescue me. Mischa’s lost his bargaining chip. Any benefit he might have gained from keeping me alive is surely good and gone now. So maybe he means it. A madman’s curiosity is the only reason why I’m still breathing.
“So place your bets, Little Rose…”
My toes flex in my boots, dislodging the blade and coaxing it closer to the rim.
“Is that so?” Mischa says with a casual shrug. “By attacking me directly, I suppose you know what this means? You’ve just forsaken the protection of themafiya.”
“Now, tell me: What the hell do I need protection from a dead man for?” Anders chuckles, rising from his chair. Slowly, he fishes a pistol from the waistband of his pants, but he doesn’t bother to aim it. “All bets are off now. You wanted a war, Prince? You just bought yourself one—”
“You’re right,” Mischa says. “I have.”
Boom!
Gunshots ring out as the world lurches, plunging everything into chaos. Dust flies. Darkness. Light. I’m choking on the thickened air, feeling for anything solid to cling to. I find it in the form of a muscular arm that flexes in recognition.
“Move!”
A chorus of pained groans almost drowns out the shout. More gunshots echo, but they sound too far away. Up above?
“Go!”
A hand rams against my back, shoving me forward. Up. Out.
Fresh air trickles into my lungs as someone manually hauls me out of the shaft and onto the field. Mischa. There’s no time to get my bearings as he lunges forward, tugging me by my arm. I just run, giving in to his guidance. Eventually, we reach the trees where shouts echo, too chaotic to make sense of. Dirt and brambles nip at the bared skin of my legs and dislodge my boots. I’m clinging to Mischa more than I’d like—clinging, rather than letting him drag me along.
Suddenly, he comes to a stop, pushing me against a harsh surface. My heart stammers as my senses fight to identify it. Dry. Cold. Bark. A tree?
“Climb,” he hisses.
I twist around to witness him peel his shirt off and tear it down the middle.
Cold, his gaze slices through mine. “Fucking climb!”
I reach for a low-hanging branch and attempt to use it for leverage to get off the ground. With only one functional hand, it’s a pathetic attempt.
Behind me, Mischa scoffs. “Stay still.” He seizes my waist and lifts, all but throwing me onto a narrow fork between two splayed branches.
Bark scrapes my palm as I scramble for purchase. “I’m slipping,” I croak to him, fighting to keep my voice down. “I’m—”
“Don’t panic,” he warns from down below. “Wait for me.”
