“Don’t play stupid, Andriani. Protection. And trading one woman for four people isn’t an even exchange. We are the ones with the true upper hand here now, not you. Make your decision, but make it quickly. I’m growing impatient, and you won’t like what happens then.”
“Let me,” I tell my brother urgently.
All that matters is Isla. Getting her out of the Bratva’s clutches. Sending her home where she belongs and where she’ll be safe. Far the fuck away from me and anything and anyone that will hurt her.
“I’ll agree to your offer, Sidorov,” Priest says suddenly. “But Saint isn’t marrying your sister. It’ll have to be a different Andriani brother.”
“Which one?” Sidorov asks dispassionately.
The cold bastard truly doesn’t give a shit which one of us marries his sister. As long as he gets what he wants.
“It should be Scorpion,” Priest says. “The two of them are already acquainted. They can build on that for their marriage. We’ll have a rock-solid alliance, and everyone wins.”
Sidorov nods. “Done. Bring me my sister, and I will have my guests delivered safely to you in return.”
He extends a hand, and Priest reaches across the table, shaking it and sealing our brother’s fate in the process.
Isla
I’ve been tiedup and left on a floor that’s so uncomfortable, it may as well be its own torture device. My legs are bound at the ankles, and my wrists are tied together, a rope cinched tightly between the two so that I’m perpetually hunched over. My back aches, my butt hurts, my head is still throbbing from the crash, and I’m reasonably sure I’m going to be killed soon.
The first panic attack that hit me was so intense that I almost passed out. I couldn’t even defend myself as I was hauled from the mangled car and thrown into the back of a waiting van that sped me off to some undisclosed location that smells likeold water crossed with a musty attic. I’ve had some time since my ignominious arrival to use every tactic and technique my therapist armed me with for controlling my anxiety, and I’ve reached a numb acceptance of what’s happened.
I hope I’m not going to be tortured and that the end is merciful. For now, it’s small comfort that I’m not alone in this windowless room that’s got a lone television hanging on the wall.Game of Thronesdubbed in Russian plays while a Bratva goon presides over us in a worn office chair that creaks every time he moves.
Rocco and the guards are here with me. Santino is in rough shape, and Giovanni’s even worse, both eyes swollen shut from putting up a fight even after the Russians stripped his pistol away. Rocco took a bullet to his left shoulder. After the crash, everything happened so fast. There was a hail of gunfire. Santino shoved me onto the floor and lay on top of me as a shield. They were outnumbered and outgunned, and the Bratva had the element of surprise on their side.
On the episode that’s playing, a dragon breathes fire. Having a dragon of my own to summon and breathe fire on the Bratva bastards who kidnapped us would be amazingly handy right now. But this is real life, and I don’t have a dragon. I also don’t have a chance of making it out of this place alive.
“How are you?” I whisper to Rocco.
I’m worried about that bullet wound of his. He claims the bullet went right through, and he was initially taken to a separate room for “medical attention.” When he was brought to this room, he was sporting a bandage, but I have no idea what passes for first aid in a run-down Bratva warehouse.
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
He doesn’t look fine. His expression is drawn, like he’s in pain, and his face is pale. It looked like he lost a lot of blood, which can’t be good.
“You’ve been shot.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this.”
“How do you?—”
“No fucking talking!” barks out the Russian, not bothering to take his eyes from the show holding his rapt attention.
I bite my lip and hold my tongue. The last thing I need to do is get us into more trouble. If I make this guy mad, he could take it out on us. So I sit in miserable silence, turning my mind to possible means of escape. There’s nothing sharp anywhere. No way to cut our bindings, and the more I test my bonds and try to wiggle my wrists and ankles free, the tighter the ropes get. If there were a way for us all to overpower the lone guard…
The door to the room swings open suddenly, and another man steps inside, speaking to the guard in hasty Russian. The man gets off his chair and stands to his full, intimidating height. More men pour into the room, coming toward us.
My stomach drops.
Oh God.
This is it.
It’s time.
“Please don’t do this,” I beg, desperation kicking in. “You don’t have to kill us.”
