He grunts out an affirmative.
Weird. “Where did he go?”
Another “mm-hmm.”
So helpful. I don’t have time for this nonverbal nonsense. “Okay, well, thanks for nothing. Excuse me.”
The guard blocks my path.
“Do you mind?” When I try to swerve around him, he shoves me. My heel skids on the tile floor as he pins me against the wall.
My mind flashes back to Shout, and clammy, horrible nausea floods me.
“Move. Slowly.” A Russian accent.
Well, at least that explains all the grunting andmm-hmm-ing.
The cold, hard metal of a gun barrel pokes into my stomach.
An adrenaline rush spikes my courage, and I pin this guy with a death stare. He chose the wrong day to mess with me.
I’m too amped up on anxiety, anger, and fear for Kellin’s well-being to fret about my own hide. “Are you fucking kidding me? For starters, the building’s on?—”
“Say one more word, and I’ll shoot you right here. If you cooperate, Mr. Rostov may let you live.”
As much as I’ve worked to steer clear of family business, my blood freezes at the name drop.
Grigori Rostov leads a power-hungry Russian crime family.
Oh, shit. This man was never one of my father’s.
He’s only familiar because he spent the last few days at the Cypress stalking me.
Recalling the strange men ushering my father’s “guest” through the hotel, I revise my conclusion. I bet this Russian’s with them.
I understand now. There’s no fire, and this man’s not another Port Kings goon.
“Hey, I didn’t see anything.” I raise my hands and try to pretend my heart isn’t racing. “I’m just searching for my brother. BrodyGallagher.” As if my brother’s name could spook this guy when he and his pals just broke into the penthouse my father’s been using as a safe house to steal his prized possession.
I didn’t see anything.Famous last words. I shake my head, so disappointed in myself. When push comes to shove, I become a talking cliché.
Brody was right. I should stay abreast of who they hire. If I did, I would’ve realized this guy didn’t belong days ago.
Why the hell is Grigori Rostov after the guy from the penthouse?
The Russian points toward the same emergency exit his men disappeared through. Out of options, I start the slow march.
Kellin. Please be okay.
I stop just shy of the door and pivot to face the Russian. He towers above me, his dark, empty eyes almost daring me to run, the barrel of his gun aiming at my heart.
I don’t break eye contact. I won’t. I refuse to show fear.
If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead.
And a lot has changed since last night.
I am no longer the naive daughter of some mob boss, ducking, dodging, and denying her heritage. No more doe eyes and vapid looks while praying ignorance will save the day andpoofall the bad guys and illegal activity away.
