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I nod. “We’ll stop the flow and get some of our guys back into the union.”
“We need to put Sokolov in the dirt,” Dario snaps, sighing.
Fyodor Sokolov is the leader of the Bratva on the East Coast, who initiated this war. He’s trying to push us from power. He’ll run the city like an animal without constraints, thoughts about people’s lives, or the everyday person.
“If I knew where he was, I’d beat him to death myself.”
“Did you hear what that man said when I got the information?”
I shake my head.
“Sokolov taught him all that, the stuff he did on the video. He trained his men. He called itKremlin stuff. Using psychological warfare, abusing and destroying regular citizens is a way to terrify the average person. They don’t realize, do they, Leo?”
“No, they fucking don’t.”
“We’re not the average person, and we don’t get scared.”
I clap him on the arm. For the rest of the journey, I let my mind wander. Considering I just killed a man, maybe it’s strange where my thoughts go, but it feels natural. The red of the blood becomes the red flush of her cheeks instead, and suddenly I’m in a better place.
The war’s over. I’m holding my woman tightly, inhaling the scent of her curly hair, and our children are laughing and calling to us, Mommy, Daddy!
And everybody lived happily ever after. Yeah, right, because life’s a goddamn fairy tale.
CHAPTERFIVE
Emma
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Rosa asks, lingering at the door to the guestroom. There’s hope in her voice.
Before the half-naked man, before the kidnapping—call a spade a spade—we talked about spending the night together slumber-party style. However, the day’s been far different, sitting in awkward silence in the basement.
“My phone doesn’t have a signal,” I told her at one point.
She glanced at me, sucking in air. “We’ve got a blocker for important meetings and stuff like that, Dad said.”
So I can’t call for help, not that I have anybody to call, and, really, should Iwanthelp?
If the Russians are really after me, it’s not as if I can snap my fingers and instantly be okay with this very not-okay situation.
“I’m sure,” I tell her after a long pause. “I just want to get some sleep.”
I can use the Wi-Fi on my phone, so they trust me to some extent. Once Rosa’s gone, I navigate through my friends list on social media. There’s nobody, really: old halfway friends from school, acquaintances, my stepdad, his new girlfriend, her daughter, who I got on with okay. There’s nobody who would come flying to my rescue. I could—maybe should—call the cops or get my stepdad to call the cops by messaging him online, but I can’t bring myself to do this.
I’m sitting here in the clothes I arrived in. They brought in my suitcase, but changing feels like calling this place home. I look down at my stepdad’s easy smile in his profile photo. He’s got his arm around his new girlfriend.
I drop my phone on the bed, wondering how I’m going to handle this situation. How long do I have to stay here? What am I going to do in the meantime? What happens if I try to leave?
Suddenly, I can’t take just sitting here. That’s what I had to do as Mom passed away in front of us. Six months of slow degradation and me justsitting there, forced to allow it to happen. I was powerless as her illness took her piece by piece and left only the outline of the whole, then nothing.
Leaving the bedroom, I walk down the narrow hallway and into the entertainment room. As expected, the basement door is locked, so I knock loudly.
“Yes?” a man says.
“The en suite is busted. I need to use the toilet.”
“Um—”
“I need to use the toilet rightnow, thank you. It’s a feminine issue.”
