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Images start to form in my head. A photograph of Anton standing with a bunch of seriously bad dudes. Including the infamous Sergei Volkov. The notorious Bratva leader who kept providing the press with enough material to keep his name in the headlines indefinitely.
And then, there’s Anton’s wife. A wife who died mysteriously.
Not “died,” Scarlett, “killed.”
That’s a big fucking difference. Especially if it had something to do with the scum Anton was mingling with.
I look up at the man looming over me now. The rough-hewn features. The ugly-assed tattoos, and the guttural accent.
An accent that is Russian.
Dear God!
I didn’t drag Anton into my fuck-up.
He dragged me into his!
Chapter 3
Anton
The door bursts open, and instinct kicks in.
Bring it on!
Bring it!
I tense, ready to fight for my life, steeling myself for the sight of Volkov and his men coming through that doorway. Steeling myself for the worst – and when it comes to Volkov, the worst could be a living nightmare. I don’t give a fuck. If I go down today, I won’t be going alone.
Bracing against the ropes at my wrists, I feel a slight loosening as strands begin to snap. Whoever walks in here, is in for a surprise. And now, I’m fucking praying it’s Volkov. Praying for the moment I can end his fucking life.
But it’s not Volkov.
It’s…What the fuck?
It’s Luka.
My body floods with relief so intense it’s nearly painful, the adrenaline surge leaving me lightheaded. Luka strides into the room, followed by Ivan and a handful of his most trusted men.
I stare in astonishment for a second.
“Jesus,dolboyob!” I shake my head to make sure I’m not seeing things. “Blyad!I’ve never been so pleased to see your ugly face in my life!”
“Ugly?” Luka lifts a dark eyebrow, the grates a thumb over his short-cropped beard. “Is that any way to greet the man who just saved your ass?”
“I was starting to wonder what the fuck’s taking you so long,” I respond.
There’s a flicker of wry humor in Luka’s gaze as he takes in my bound form. “I thought maybe you were planning to sit there all night. Or were you waiting for an invitation to join in the fun,mudak?”
The tension bleeds from my muscles, replaced by a surge of determination. I’m not alone. I’m not defeated. Not yet.
I choke out a laugh. There’s relief in it. A fuckload of relief. “So you just going to stand around looking at me trussed up like a motherfucking turkey, or what?”
Luka’s knife slices through the ropes binding my wrists, freeing me at last. I stand, rolling my shoulders to work out the ache. I put weight on my injured leg and bite back a grimace. It hurts, but it’s not unmanageable. I can still get down to the safe room.
“You good?” Luka glances down at where my pants are ripped, revealing torn, bloody flesh.
“Bullet went straight through.” I’ve managed to do a physical inventory during the time I’ve been bound. The pain is the mother of all bitches, but the bleeding has stopped. No arteries clipped, no bones shattered. As bullet wounds go, this one’s not much to write home about.
