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Hearing her American accent makes a frown form on my forehead, but having a job to do, I haul her to the car. Vincent opens the backdoor, and I shove Svetlana inside.
“Jesus,” she hisses, shooting a glare my way.
After I slide in beside Svetlana, Vincent starts the engine, and seconds later, we’re speeding away from the nightclub where Papa and Misha will take care of the guards should they try to come after us.
I turn in the seat to glance out the back window to make sure we’re not being followed before I let out a breath of relief.
“That was easier than I thought,” I voice my thoughts to Vincent, then my eyes lock on Svetlana.
Holy. Fucking. Christ.
The woman sitting next to me is so fucking beautiful, I can only stare at her for a solid minute. She has wavy light brown hair, and her eyes are a mixture of brown and green. Her features are delicate and innocent.
“Do you understand English?” she asks.
Svetlana is Russian. Born and bred.
This woman has an American accent.
Fuck.
“What’s your name?” I ask, praying to all that’s holy I didn’t grab the wrong girl.
“Oh, thank God you speak English,” she lets out a relieved chuckle. “I’m Everleigh. Are you Svetlana’s guards?” She glances out the windows, then nervously brings her eyes back to me.
“What the fuck,” Vincent snaps from behind the steering wheel.
Apprehension tightens the girl’s features. “This was her idea. She left the nightclub with her friends.” She glances out the window again. “You can drop me off right here.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter while quickly pulling my phone from my pocket. In Russian, I tell Vincent, “Papa’s going to kill us.”
“What are you doing?” Vincent shakes his head as he turns the vehicle left up a random street. “Don’t call Papa. Let’s think of a plan.”
“Can you stop the car?” The girl…Everleigh is looking more anxious by the second.
I feel a twinge of panic because I wasn’t lying when I said Papa will kill us for the mistake. We had one job, and we fucked up.
My eyes snap to the girl’s face as I ask, “Where is Svetlana?”
She shrugs while gripping a backpack to her chest. “I don’t know. She left the club ten minutes before me.”
Suddenly there’s a crash of metal, our bodies are jarred, and the car spins to the side.
“Blyad',” Vincent curses, trying to regain control of the vehicle.
Shock vibrates through me, and the air in my lungs bursts from my lips. Instinctively, I grab hold of Everleigh, who’s too stunned to make a sound. I’m slammed against the door, and as the car flips, there’s nothing I can do to stop us from being tossed around.
A faint peeping sound comes from Everleigh, and I feel her hands claw at my shirt. Pain rips through my left arm, and a moment later, everything stops. I hear the groaning of metal and something dripping.
What the fuck?
Letting out a groan, I shake my head before pushing myself up from where I’m laying partially over Everleigh.
I grip hold of the driver’s seat and sit up. I notice blood seeping from a gash on my left forearm, then my eyes dart to my brother, who’s slumped over the steering wheel. There’s a cut on his forehead and blood trickling from his mouth.
“Vincent!” Even though I intended to shout, his name is nothing but a hoarse whisper.
“God,” Everleigh whimpers, trying to sit up.
