“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs. His breath smells heavily of smoke. “You look scared.”
“I—I shouldn’t be here,” I manage. “I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, smile widening. He lifts his jacket, showing off his gun. “I’m afraid that ship has sailed.”
My limbs go ice-cold. My heart stutters again, violently, and I grip the edge of the desk to stay upright.
He leans in, his free hand sliding down my arm, too slow, too deliberate. “Relax,” he says. “You’re not dying today. Not until I’ve had my chance to check out the goods.” He pauses. “But you might be worth something.”
I can’t breathe.
He brings his mouth close to my ear. “When I’m finished with you, I’ll see what your organs go for. Young hearts fetch a high price.”
The room tilts.
My mother. Her surgery. The heart she might need.
And this man. This monster.
I try to scream, but nothing comes out.
Artyom smiles. “Good girl.”
For the first time in my life, I know I’m not getting out of this on my own.
My thoughts fly to Riccardo.
I’m sorry,I whisper inside myself.I should have trusted you to take care of me. I should have waited for you.
Tears well up in my eyes. Artyom seems delighted by that. “I love this part,” he whispers in awe. “They always cry so pretty.”
He takes out his gun and strokes my cheek with it. The metal is cold enough to bite.
I fight down a sob, but it’s useless. My heart is pounding like crazy. All I can think about is Riccardo and my mother. The two most important people in my life, and I’ve let them both down. I close my eyes in pain.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorr?—
Just then, the door bursts open, kicked clean off its hinges.
18
RICCARDO
The moment I hear Savannah’s voice—thin, strangled, terrified—something inside me snaps so cleanly I don’t even recognize the sound it makes.
I don’t bother knocking. I don’t bother announcing myself. I put my boot to the door and kick. The hinges rip free with a metallic crack, the whole frame crashing inward as the room explodes into motion. Papers fly. The administrator yelps. The Bratva men jerk toward me.
Savannah is pinned against the wall, her face pale, her hands shaking. Belov has one arm braced beside her head, his gun angled under her chin like she’s a toy he got bored waiting to unwrap.
I don’t think. I don’t speak.
I fire.
The silenced shot hits him in the shoulder first—deliberate, controlled, meant to put him down without splattering Savannah. The second shot takes him in the thigh. Belov screams as he drops to one knee, the gun falling from his hand and skittering across the floor. I’m already moving toward Savannah before any of the others can react.
“Don’t,” I growl without looking at the remaining men, “fucking move.”
None of them do.
