“Stay put, kitten,” he says, already turning away, his footsteps fading down the hall.
The doctor groans, “Get back in the damn room, or you’ll bleed out right here. That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen. Do you know who he is?” His eyes are wide with shock, maybe a little pity. “You’re lucky you’re still breathing. Make him angry again, and the city will be finding your body parts for the next five years.”
“I don’t care who he is.” My fingers clench around the car keys I swiped from Priest’s pocket while he was busy strangling me. I shove them into my waistband and push up slowly from the floor, my side throbbing and my arm screaming. “I just need something for the pain. I can handle the stitches myself,” I manage through gritted teeth, wiping his spit off my neck and chest.
The doctor glances at my bleeding side and shakes his head. “You really don’t know when to quit.” He leaves me propped against the wall as blood soaks my clothes.
He returns with a bottle of oxy and a small kit for stitches. I snatch them out of his hands without a word and start limping down the hall, ignoring whatever he’s trying to say. Every step is excruciating, but I’m focused on one thing: getting as far away from the Sovereign as possible.
Finally, I spot the exit and bolt through the door. The thick and damp New Orleans air slams into me, a drizzle curling through the early fog. Just past dawn, the streets are deserted.
There’s only one vehicle parked out front—an obnoxiously lifted Ford truck, matte black and built like it’s overcompensating for something. It looks ridiculous next to the crumbling buildings and cracked pavement.
I limp toward it, every step dragging pain up my side. The second I reach the door, I realize the problem: it’s stupidly tall.Fuck me.I’m five-one, bleeding, and doped to hell, and this bastard drives a damn monster truck.
I eye the handle, then the height. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, gripping the door.
The first try’s a joke—my foot slips, my stitches burn, and I nearly eat asphalt.
“Son of a dickless titwaffle.” I grit my teeth.
The second try, I brace harder, ignoring the fresh tear in my side. My hand slips, then catches. My boot scrapes. Somehow, with sheer spite and another string of creative profanity “Gas-guzzling, sky-humping-piece-of-shit”—I haul myself up.
By the time I slam the door shut, I’m sweating, lightheaded, and fully pissed off.
I pop a couple of oxy dry and fire up the engine, peeling away from the curb.
My heart pounds as the world blurs past, pain wrapping tight around every breath. I keep one eye on the road, the other scanning the interior. A pickup’s a weird-ass choice for a Sovereign—most of them favor sleek luxury rides. This thing screams backwoods apocalypse…with money.
The back seat’s loaded. Guns. Ammo. Knives. Compartments stacked with enough firepower to start a war.
This isn’t just transportation It’s a rolling arsenal.
Jackpot.
I need to unload this for cash—fast.
Navigating the city streets, I keep it together just long enough to reach the chop shop on the outskirts. The oxy’s kicking in, dulling the sharp edges of pain as I jump out, stumbling over to the door and shoving it open.
Dmitry’s head pops up from behind the hood of a car. He grins, wiping his grease-stained hands on his overalls. “A, whatkind of mess did you get into now?” His thick Russian accent cuts through the shop noise, his gaze flicking to the truck behind me.
“Obychnyy,” I shrug, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge in the corner and guzzling it.
He laughs. “You’re lucky I like you, girl. But nothingordinaryabout the messes you drag in.” He strolls over to the black truck, circling and inspecting every inch. “A Shelby Baja Raptor, nice ride. Whose is this?”
I lean against the wall, trying to look casual while my side feels like it’s being ripped apart. “You don’t want to know. I want forty percent for the truck. And another fifty for the guns.”
“Twenty. And only because we go way back.”
“No. And you’d better move fast, or I’ll just take it to Yuri.”
“You always bring trouble, A.” His gaze drops to my blood-darkened clothes. He shakes his head, muttering in Russian before heading towards another car bay. A few orders are barked at his crew, then he turns back to me, shaking his head. “Fine. But that’s because I like you.”
He grabs a set of keys off the wall, tossing them my way. “Don’t bring the cops,” he pauses, “or worse, to my shop.”
“Spasibo,”I mumble, already walking toward the old, beat-up car he’s pointed out. “I’ll be working at Ivan’s this week. Send the money there.”
He nods without looking at me, already shouting more orders in rapid Russian as I start the engine and drive to my apartment.
