Hannah flinches beside me.
I shift closer without thinking, angling my body between her and the open space beyond the tablecloth. If anything comes this way, it hits me first.
Marco presses himself flat to the floor, muttering something frantically under his breath—prayers, maybe. Or apologies.I don’t care.
There’s shouting, angry, sharp, unfamiliar voices barking orders in a language I don’t recognize.
My grip tightens on the gun.
I glance at Hannah again. Her skin is still flushed, her breathing not quite right.
“We’re leaving,” I murmur close to her ear. “Soon as there’s an opening.”
I risk a look. The restaurant is nearly empty now. Everyone’s fled. Only a few men remain, wearing mud-splattered boots and heavy coats. All wrong for a place like this.
Marco crawls up beside me, lifts the tablecloth an inch, and peers out. “Shit. It’s the Bratva.”
“Who?”
“Russian Mafia,” he says, grimacing. “I might owe them some money.”
I swear, shaking my head. “Do you even have a gun?”
He scrubs his hand over his face and admits, “I left it in my jacket…at the coat check.”
I curse under my breath, keeping it low so I don’t scare Hannah. Then I shove the gun into Marco’s chest. “Count how many of them are out there.”
He fumbles it, fingers slick with sweat. “Why?” he hisses. “What are you doing?”
I roll onto my side and dig my phone out of my pocket.
“I’m sure the cops are already on the way,” Marco whispers, peering at the screen.
“I’m not calling the police, you idiot.”
I press my thumb to unlock it, the familiar interface flaring to life. This phone stopped being a phone a long time ago. I’ve spent the last year turning it into something else entirely. Now it’s got custom programs, layered access, amped-up power. A portable problem-solver.
Hannah scoots up on my other side. “What’s going on?” she whispers.
“Get back!” I bark at her, my panic flaring. “Behind me. Stay hidden.”
She narrows her eyes at me and hisses, “Screw you, Damian. I’m not going anywhere.”
Ugh. So fucking stubborn.
Before I can argue, a voice carries across the restaurant, smooth, amused, thick with a Russian accent. “Marco, oh, Marco. Where are you?” He laughs. “I know,” he says. “Let’s play a game. I say Marco. You say Polo.”
Other voices join in his laughter. Male voices, deep and rough.
“How many?” I ask Marco without looking up, as my fingers fly over the cool screen of my phone.
“Five—no,” he whispers, lifting the tablecloth an inch. “Six.”
Hannah’s breath hitches. “That’s…that’s a lot, right?”
“It could be worse,” Marco states.
I glare at him.
