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Abruptly, I again wondered how he managed to pull any of it off. “How did you find me?”
“The Russians have ways.”
Of course they did. Everyone with money hadways. We had entire security details assigned to us because of the Russians’ methods, though. “Does Dad want me to earn money for him or something?” I asked, still trying to stall for time and keep him in the building. Our father was a good investor, but not a great one.
I was a helluva investor, but he’d earned a shit reputation early on due to some bad luck and poor investments. Zeke had promoted him anyway, and my father had survived on that rep despite his luck.
Still, he could’ve convinced people to invest with him, and then he had me. I’d already earned us a shit ton of money, which might have been enough, if not for the Russians.
My brother snorted, shaking his head. “No, he wants you to marry one of the mobster’s sons.”
“What?” I stopped dead, staring at him for a few dumbfounded seconds before I darted around. “No.”
Investing? It sucked, but I could do it. Getting shot, even, would suck, if not for long, so it would at least be final and rather quick. Marrying mob guys in Russia? No, I absolutely couldn’t do it.
“Sorry, Bridget,” my brother said, shaking his head sadly before gripping my shoulder in one gaunt, but shockingly strong, hand. He winced before he shoved a sweet-smelling cloth over my face. When did he get a cloth…? I couldn’t think about the logistics, I needed to get it off my—I sucked in a deep breath of air, struggling to remove the fabric barrier.
The strange smell on the cloth caught my attention again, so sweet, and then I thought of nothing else.
Hope and Layla had nicknames,but no one had given me one. Sometimes, they called me Bridge, which meant road over water, didn’t it? But not many shortened my name, so even those incidents were few and far between. I remained Bridget. Why was that? Hope became Hopey, and Layla earned lots of nicknames, my favorite of which had to be Lulu. No nickname for me, though.
I awakened thinking about names, pondering why I’d never inspired some shortened form of my name or other descriptive moniker. Strange. I tried to muddle my fuzzy brain away from such unimportant matters, so I could focus on the problem at hand.
Which wasJustin drugged me and took me to Russia.
At least, I was pretty sure it must be Russia. Either that or the drugs left me unable to comprehend words. It could be either, but the sounds from the hallway made me think people were speaking Russian.
I spoke a lot of languages, but of course not Russian.
The room wasn’t unpleasant, with white sheets beneath my cheek and a dark mahogany four-poster bed. Matching dressers and nightstands filled out the room, and they even matched tonally with the artwork on the walls. I blinked, surprised to be imprisoned with art, but I recognized the one piece. All the way to the left, a frame held my mother’s painting, one she’d titledSeptember.Hope owned it before, but I hadn’t seen it since she’d sold it to pay off Max’s debt. We’d thought we’d never find out who owned it, but apparently, I found the home of the sad painting, as we called it when we were kids.In Russia,I thought, surprised.So we never would’ve found it.
My head swam, nausea churning in my stomach and the drugs still making it so damn hard to focus.
Maybe I’ll have more coherent emotions when that clears up a bit?
“The gun wasn’t even loaded.”
I jumped, startled because I hadn’t noticed Justin sitting in the corner. Two large windows let in plenty of light, illuminating his less shaky hands and much better color. His eyes, too, seemed more focused and alert than before, which seemed like bad news for me. It meant he’d used drugs.
His hair was wet, so he’d also showered. I couldn’t see it as a positive, though.
I sat up on my elbows. He said the gun wasn’t loaded, right? I should ask more, keep him talking, so I said, “It wasn’t?”
“No.” He ran a hand through his drying hair, the track marks looking like bruises. “I never would’ve hurt you. I mean…you didn’tknowthat, I guess.” He shrugged. “I can see why you might think I would.”
I lurched to my feet, not caring that I looked a little bit wobbly. Gray dots swam over my vision, so I felt even more unsteady. I said to Justin, “You can understand why I might think you’d shoot me? You pointed a gun at me. Of course I thought you might shoot me. Who points a gun at a person when they don’t mean it? No normal person, that’s for sure. I guess I shouldn’t have assumed you’d be normal, dipshit. Oh, and besides pointing a gun in my face, you also drugged me and kidnapped me, so you can go fuck yourself.”
For a long moment, he simply stared at me, but eventually he tilted his head. “Okay.”
“Okay?”That’s all he can say?I saw red, the venom coming out in my tone when I added, “You’re a terrible person, Justin. I wish you weren’t my brother.”
He winced, which surprised me a little, because I honestly hadn’t thought he’d care.He can’t possibly think our relationship is remotely okay? Or that we have anything left to salvage?
He’d pretended he might shoot me to force me to travel to Russia with him. Once there, he’d hoped to marry me to someone I’d never met, the son of a mobster.We aren’t going to leave the room best buds.I didn’t need to be emotionally astute to know that.
“Well, it wasn’t a picnic with the three of you, either.”
The door was flung open, and my father stood in the doorframe. “Are you two fighting like children?”
