“I’m fine,” I lied, standing on shaky legs. “Just need some air.”
I didn’t wait for permission or company. Just pushed my way out of the booth and headed for the back exit, past bodies pressed too close together, past music that felt like it was trying to split my skull open.
I burst through the door into the alley behind the club, the cold Chicago air hitting my face like a slap. My stomach rolled, and I braced myself against the brick wall, breathing deeply through my nose, trying not to actually vomit on my boots.
This was my life. This pathetic existence, where I couldn’t even enjoy a night out with friends without feeling like I was drowning. Where every conversation eventually circled back to Sebastian, to the video, to the chains I couldn’t break.
Behind me, the club door opened. I didn’t turn around, didn’t want to see whichever friend had followed me out to make sure I wasn’t completely falling apart.
Spoiler alert: I was.
“You can’t keep running,” Hailey’s voice said from behind me.
I laughed, the sound harsh and broken. “Watch me.”
“Barbara….”
“I can’t, Hailey.” I turned to face her, and I felt the tears burning in my eyes. “I can’t ask Kirill for help. I can’t tell you what Sebastian has on me. I can’t do any of the things you all keep saying I should do because the moment I do—” My voice cracked. “The moment I do, everything falls apart. And I’m not strong enough to survive that.”
She stepped closer, her expression soft with understanding. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m really not.”
We stood there in that alley, the club’s muffled bass providing a soundtrack to my breakdown. And I realized with crushing certainty that this was it. This was as good as my life was going to get.
Trapped between secrets and lies, between the devil I knew and the help I couldn’t accept.
Between Sebastian’s chains and Kirill’s piercing blue eyes that saw too much and made me want things I couldn’t have.
“Come back inside,” Hailey finally said. “At least finish your drink before you spiral completely.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to just go home, crawl into bed, and pretend none of this was happening. But going home meant facing an empty mansion and the knowledge that Sebastian could show up at any moment.
So I followed her back inside, back to the booth where Cassandra was holding our seats and Illyana was arguing with Damir about something I couldn’t hear over the music.
And as I slid into the booth and grabbed another drink, as I pasted a smile on my face and tried to participate in normalconversation, I couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out.
Fast.
Chapter 12 – Kirill
The VIP booth sat elevated above the main floor of the club, giving us a clear view of everything below while keeping us separate. Isolated. The music was muted up here, just a distant throb of bass that you felt more than heard. It made conversation possible, which was the point.
I sat wedged between Drew and the leather armrest, nursing a vodka that I had no intention of drinking. The glass was just something to do with my hands. Something to focus on besides the woman I could see at the bar below, her chestnut hair catching the strobe lights.
Barbara.
I’d been avoiding looking at her for the past thirty minutes. Mostly succeeding. The keyword being mostly.
Timur occupied the head of the table, all six-foot-two of violence barely contained in an expensive suit. His dark eyes scanned the club below like he was cataloging threats, filing away faces for future reference. Next to him sat Andrei—Vladimir’s son, sharp-featured and calculating, with gray eyes that missed nothing.
Drew sat to my left, his usual relaxed posture at odds with the tension thrumming beneath his skin. And across from us, Damir sprawled in his seat like he owned the place, a smirk playing at his lips that meant trouble.
“Los Zetas are splintering,” Andrei said, pulling my attention back to the conversation. He had a tablet in front of him, numbers and names scrolling across the screen. “Divided into three major groups as of last week. Inner rebellions. Power plays. It’s getting messy inside their organization.”
Drew raised a brow, his steel-gray eyes sharp with interest. “Messy is excellent for Bratva.” He reached for hisdrink, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully. “Slower money flow, less structure. Easier to pick them apart.”
“Exactly.” Andrei nodded, tapping the screen to pull up a new set of data. “Their cash routes are shaky. Wire transfers are being rerouted through three different channels now instead of one centralized system. Even the Cartel’s stash house in Arizona got hit by their own people last week.” He paused, his expression grim. “Some want the old ways—traditional hierarchy, established territories. Some want chaos—burn it all down and rebuild from scratch.”
