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I made it about halfway back to the house before dizziness overwhelmed me. The last thing I remember is the world slowly fading away.
I jolt awake what feels like a moment later, but when I look around, I’m back in the office with the double doors, where I found Bianka and Ellie. Sharp pain lances across my ribs as I suck in a deep breath, and I can’t stop the groan of pain.
“Look who finally decided to rejoin us,” one of the Bratva men teases in his thick accent.
Blinking to clear my vision, I slowly turn my throbbing head to assess just how deep of shit I’m in. Brain matter still paints the door from where I shot the one guard, and red stains the wood in a massive puddle left from the first two victims I killed upon my initial entry.
But the bodies have been removed from the room, fresh, living guards occupying their space as if they’re regenerated NPCs from a video game. My thoughts are too scattered to linger on it long, though, and I move on, scanning the room more thoroughly.
Ellie’s beside me, bound to the same chair as before. I’m in a different one–one with arms that the men have bound my wrists to–a perfect setup for the torture that I’m sure awaits me. Each of my ankles has been strapped to a leg as well, and my shoulders are lashed to the back of the chair, making it impossible to move.
Not that I could anyway. I’m sore all over, feeling the equivalent to what it must be like to get hit by a freight train. I shake my head, trying to clear the fuzziness from my brain, and that helps mildly.
“Who are you?” one of the men asks, stepping forward as he examines the knife I stole from his compatriot, Maksim. “And where did you come from?”
“Who me?” I ask lightly, glancing to either side of me like he must be talking to someone behind me. “I was just stopping by for a friendly visit. Thought I might take this lovely girl for a stroll.”
A meaty fist buries itself in my diaphragm, knocking the air from my lungs and making my brutalized ribs scream. I cough, the blood pounding in my temples as I fight to breathe.
“Let’s try that again,” the man says casually, holding the knife close to my face.
Ellie sobs beside me, her terror making my heart ache. “Please, please don’t hurt him,” she begs desperately.
“Shut it, or you’re next,” the man growls, turning to point the knife at my brother’s girlfriend.
“Hey, fuckface. Leave her out of this,” I state, icy warning in my tone. Not that I have any control over what he does with that knife right now, but I don’t like him threatening Ellie. “Your issue is with me.”
“Damn right it is,” he says, turning back to me. “You almost killed two more of my men back there, and we have already lost five others because of you tonight.”
I sneer despite myself, unable to contain my uncharacteristic rage. “Pretty pathetic excuses for guards, I’d say. If they’d let a nobody like me come along and take them down with that kind of ease.”
The Russian releases a snarl, advancing on me with murder in his eyes, and I know I’ve pushed him too far. I close my eyes, turning my head away as he raises the knife above his head. And I flinch at the resounding bang. But there’s no residual pain.
Confused, I tentatively crack an eye open and find the double doors flung wide, a middle-aged woman occupying the doorway. “Whatis all this racket?” she demands. “Did you find the Popov gir–” Her words cut short as her eyes land on me, and a slow smile spreads across her face.
Fear pools in my belly for the first time, replacing my resistance as I realize I might be in over my head.
“It can’t be that you’ve caught me a Marchetti,” she says, her voice filled with wonder, like I’m some fucking unicorn or something.
Well, fuck.
“This might be even better than the Popov girl,” She says gleefully. “The Marchetti territory isprimereal estate. Lorenzo Marchetti might either be willing to give up some of his land or help me destroy Ilya Popov to get you back, won’t he?”
I snort derisively. “Good luck with that,” I scoff. It wouldn’t be a bad plan if she managed to capture Nicolo, but I know the truth. I’m a spare. I always have been. My father won’t risk his territory or do anything as rash as starting a war with the Shulaya Bratva to bringmehome.
This woman picked the wrong Marchetti to consider this a victory. But I won’t give away that little nugget of truth. If I’m going to die, most likely chopped up bit by bit and delivered to my father as an incentive to pay the woman’s ransom, I plan on watching her suffer the humiliation of my father’s rejection personally.
“What’s the story on the Popov girl?” the woman asks, shrugging off my snarky reply as she turns to her men.
The man wielding my stolen knife shakes his head. “We couldn’t find her. I was just starting to interrogatehimwhen you arrived.”
“Well, stop. He’s more valuable alive than dead. Send our best trackers to find the girl. Double the men at the doors. I want this place locked down.” She casts a last glance in my direction. “Nobody touches the Marchetti boy again,” she reiterates. “Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the lead guard says, bowing his head. Then, as she exits the room, the lead guard barks orders to his men, sending them in different directions.
He leaves the room a moment later, leveling a cold look in my direction before shutting the doors behind him and leaving us with two heavily armed guards. They stand silently by the door, rifles in hand, their eyes looking to the middle distance.
In the quiet that follows, I feel every single inch of pain throbbing through my body. As I try to take stock of my injuries, I’d say I have several broken ribs and probably some internal bleeding.
