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I push away the urge to clear my throat, remaining blank. I shrug, my lips turning in an indifferent frown. “Burned it on the stove.”
Corbin lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. He pushes off the frame. He steps toward me, slow and intentional.
My phone rings with a text from Sean that has the address we need. “The ping is at the docks in Brighton.”
“Russian territory,” Yuliya and Corbin say together.
“Do you think Vlad is with her yet?” Declan asks as we all pile out of Saoirse’s to get to the docks.
“I don’t know, Dec,” I say honestly, not wanting to think about any possibility other than Saoirse alive and well. I can’t let myself focus on the what ifs, not until she’s safe in my arms. Not until I know I’ve got her back.
“He wants her for marriage,” Corbin says. “If she’s smart, she’ll use that to her advantage. He needs her alive if he wants an Irish alignment.”
The pit in my stomach grows heavier with his conclusion. I’ve circled around the possibilities, and I always come to the same thing. Alive and untouched isn’t the same as alive and tortured. Yuliya settles into the driver’s seat while I climb into the front passenger seat. The two-door black rental only has room for the two of us, the back seat small and filled with duffle bags of weapons and ammunition.
Corbin and Declan don’t have time to argue about not being able to come as Yuliya peels away from the curb.
“Tell me about the warehouses in Brighton,” I say as she speeds through the city, weaving between cars. I load up our guns–pistols and semi automatics-and even dig out a few tear gas canisters. We need to know about windows, basements, fire escapes, anything that can give us an advantage on the away field.
“I don’t know much about the Russians here. We’re based in New York. Hell, never been to Boston before this,” she says.
“The ones in South End have basements. Windows, only one entrance. But our others in Back Bay are completely different. So, we’re going in blind here.”
“Pretty much,” she says. “What’s the plan? Keep them alive for questioning?”
“Anyone we can,” I say. “We only shoot to kill as a last resort.”
Yuliya pulls up to the warehouse, tossing the car into park, and I take a deep breath.
I’m coming, baby. Hold on.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’vefiguredoutthesource of my headache was a hit to the back of my head. The ache from my eye is from landing on something when I fell. It’s swollen now, nearly shut, and throbbing with each pulse that comes through me.
My hands are tied behind my back, and I sit waiting in the dining room of a rundown mansion. Vladimir is supposedly here, upstairs. “Preparing,“ said the American accent.
I’m preparing, too. Telling myself to be good, not to give lip. Make Vlad like me enough to trust me. All of the things Scotty told me just a few hours ago. Or is this a whole new day? I glance out of the window. The sun is either rising or setting; I can’t be sure since I’ve been knocked out most of this trip. I’m not even sure how we made it here.
The Russian who took me is called Fyodor, and the American is Tommy. I don’t recognize him from the Irish side of the Mafia, but he seems familiar with me. It’s entirely possible I just don’t know him because I’m not deeply involved in this world.
“Tommy,” I say, licking my cracked lips.
The brunette turns to me, his brown eyes wild from across the dining table.
“I’m so thirsty.” I clear my throat, hating how horrible my voice sounds: weak and tired. “Could I have some water?”
“Later,” Fyodor says. “Vlad will be here soon.”
I wiggle my shoulders, making a show of being uncomfortable. “Do you think you could take these off? My wrists are killing me.”
Tommy narrows his eyes on me, trying to get a feel for my sincerity. “So you can kick me in the balls like you did Fyodor? No.”
I turn my head away to come off embarrassed. “I was scared. I didn’t mean to.”
“Did I hear an apology in there,printessa?“ Fyodor asks.
I shake my head. “I–I’m sorry, Fyodor,” I say under fake fear, a soft whisper meant to make them think I’m scared.
