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“Do we have men checking the other side of the house and basement?”
“Da.” Russian. Even worse.
“Get the canister.”
No blink. No word exchanges. No hesitation.
Those dangerous, angry Russians in the house were looking for my father to kill him. My shoulders were shaking now. How would I ever escape this?
The huge man, Pavel, walked back and forth, then disappeared, and the other took his place. He stood facing theroom. I saw him now. I saweverything. For a split second, the sight of him took my breath away.
My eyes widened.
He was tall. Like intimidatingly tall.
The height of the door was six-four, and the tip of this man’s locks brushed the top frame. He had broad shoulders and a face I thought only Greek gods possessed. Dark eyebrows on his fair skin, sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and full tempting lips women begged to kiss. His dark blonde hair was a thick, wavy mess on his head. He ran his fingers through, swept it to the side, and his outlined biceps flexed underneath the white dress shirt.
A black tie sat askew around his neck. Roughish and wicked.
His men marched into the room and started thrashing things. They shattered the mirror hanging above the dresser and put bullets into the mattress. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My eyes were fixated on his, though he hadn’t seen me.
Yet.
It was only a matter of time before his men stormed the closet and fished me out.
He was like a wild beast, ready to devour anything and anyone standing in his path.
“Last chance, Mike. If you don’t come out now, I’ll burn your fucking house to the ground.” He warned and twirled the brown cigar between his fingers. He stuck it in his mouth and exhaled. White smoke clouded his features.
“You just used up your last bit of goodwill. Five fucking seconds is all you get.”
How could someone so attractive have the voice of death?
Pavel reappeared by his side and uncapped the canister.
“Five...”
The man lifted the container and began spilling some liquid on the wall, carpet, and everything within his reach. The sharp smell hit my nose. Another tear spilled down my cheek. Gasoline.
“Three...”
He held the cigar out to him, and Pavel threw the canister into the hallway, the liquid splashing further down. Then he scurried out of the room and left, and a pit formed in my stomach. I should have been braver—kicked open the closet door and ran out like the others. But I remained frozen between the pile of clothes.
“One.”
He dropped the stick and the room erupted in crackling flames. From the peephole, I saw the corner of his lips tip upwards. Yellow, red, and orange grew and glowed brighter, consuming every fabric and wood in its path. Thick dark smoke slipped in fast through the cracks of the closet.
My eyes teared up. I coughed and reached for clothes to press against my nose. Futile. I choked. Sobbed. Coughed. My thoughts grew hazy, and my vision blurred. I coughed again, the force scratching the walls of my throat. My limbs grew weak, and my beating heart sounded louder and slower.
The closet doors swung open and bleary hands reached out to grab me. “No,” I protested weakly, coughing, and clawing my way deeper into the closet. “No!”
The hands whirled me around and someone dropped to his knees beside me. He lowered his head.
He smelled like smoke, sweat, and blood.
Thick, wavy dark blonde hair brushed my forehead and his eyes hovered over my face. I blinked and swiped my tongue over my lips. The heat of his gaze burned on me with the same intensity as the heat of the flames in the room.
One time, on the radio, I heard a man talk about the existence of a ravaging fire. Crackling and the type that consumed and destroyed everything it touched.
