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“I will.” Clearing my throat, I say, “I have to get back to work. We’ll talk soon.”
“Take it easy.”
We end the call, and I stare at the device for a moment. It’s hard to talk to Misha and Armani when they’re so fucking happily married. My friends deserve it, but it reminds me of what I’ll never have, and that fucking sucks.
We’re heading to a meeting with Brayden Kelly. I wasn’t able to dig up anything on the man, so we’re going ahead with the deal.
I keep my eyes on the car in front of me because whenever I glance around, I see Everleigh.
Driving. Walking into a store. Laughing with a little boy.
She’s fucking everywhere, and I think it’s because all my friends have settled down, so now I’m hallucinating seeing her with our son.
I thought I was insane before I started working in LA, but at this rate, I’ll end up in a padded cell, high on the good stuff.
It’s only a matter of time.
As I pull up to the docks and drive toward the warehouse where we’ll meet, I catch sight of something reflecting in the sun.
Instinct kicks in, and I swerve the G-Wagon to the right. A bullet hits the window, and instead of bouncing off, it slams into the headrest next to my temple.
“Armor-piercing bullets,” Viktor shouts.
I floor the gas, spin the vehicle around, and race past our soldiers' convoy toward the docks' exit.
Another bullet shatters the rearview mirror, slamming into the doorframe by Viktor.
Gunfire erupts between our soldiers and Kelly’s men, but I keep going.
“Down,” I shout at Viktor, using my right hand to force him forward.
Another bullet hits, and I feel the burn in my left side.
I exit the docks with screeching tires and almost hit an oncoming sedan.
Blue.
I only see a blur of the woman.
Now is not the fucking time, Aslanhov!
I don’t stop for any red lights and maneuver the G-Wagon past the other cars on the road. Only when we race through the gates of the estate do I glance at Viktor.
“Are you okay? Did you get hit?”
He shakes his head, and yanking his phone out of his pocket, he calls someone. “Ivan, where the fuck are you?” There’s a moment of tense silence while I bring the vehicle to a stop. “Get out of there. I want to know who was supposed to check the docks before my arrival, and I want his fucking head on a platter.”
He ends the call then looks at me. His eyes lower to the red stain blossoming on my dress shirt. “You’re hit.”
“It’s just a flesh wound. Are you okay?” I ask again.
“I’m fine.”
We climb out of the G-Wagon, and Viktor glances at the shot-up vehicle. He dials another number, then says, “Uncle Carson, I want a hit placed on Kelly. One million dollars. The fucker tried to take me out.”
Viktor starts to walk toward the main mansion, and I follow him. Lifting my jacket, I pull up my shirt and see it’s really just a flesh wound. It should heal in a week.
Viktor ends the call with his Uncle, who runs St. Monarch’s, then lifts my shirt to check the wound. “At least we don’t have to dig a bullet out of you.”
