“Cool it! Nobody said we’re about to die,” I told him.
If they were from the Lobanov Bratva, which was the primary Bratva in Manhattan and beyond, it might not be the end of us. I knew the Pakhan’s wife, and even his sister-in-law was my childhood friend. But the possibility that made my insides cold was of them being my dad’s enemies or creditors who wanted to get to him somehow.
A single knock sounded on the back door, and Max unlocked the car immediately.
The first man with a buzz-cut entered the car, sliding into the space beside me.
“Miss Markova, I’m Stepan. Your presence is required for a meeting with Mr. Lobanov,” he dropped, his tone calm and unyielding.
“Mr. Lobanov. Is that Viktor Lobanov?” I inquired, taking out my phone to call Emilia or Isabella.
“Not Sir Viktor,” he answered, collecting my phone from me.
“How dare you take my phone from me? Do you not know who I am? How can you behave like you’re dealing with a criminal and not a lady?”
He held on to my phone with a grip that was doubtlessly strong.
I sighed, already impatient to see the end of this show or whatever it was.
“How much did they pay you?” I asked.
When he blinked at me like I hadn’t just spoken English, I decided to explain.
“The people who sent you. My dad's enemies. Let's drop the ‘Mr. Lobanov sent me here to fetch you’ act. How much did they pay you? I'll top it, and then you and your partner can leave this place as if nothing happened.”
“I'm here under Mr. Lobanov's order,” he said, shaking his head like my accusation was an unthinkable evil. “I could…” he uttered, rolling his sleeve up, “…show you this.”
I instantly recognized the crest tattooed on his muscular arm.
“If you know the Lobanovs, you should know what it is,” he said.
“The Lobanov Bratva crest.”
My dad’s enemies wouldn’t have the Bratva crest on their bodies.
He’s really from the Lobanovs.
But I knew Viktor couldn’t be the Mr. Lobanov this guy was talking about. As the absolute leader of the Bratva, he definitely wouldn’t concern himself with a small kidnapping like this. It couldn’t be Mikhail, either. The man didn’t have the time to orchestrate an operation so organized, in a public space, for that matter.
Could it be Roman Lobanov?
“Yes,” he uttered. “You have to come with me now.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. If your boss wants to see me, tell him to book an appointment,” I said, flicking my hair confidently.
“I didn’t want to do this. But now you’re forcing my hand,” he muttered. He tucked my phone into his pocket and grabbed my arm so tightly it hurt.
He pulled me out of the car, and I held on to my purse, not willing to part ways with the thumb drive tucked inside it.
“So it begins,” I whispered as the cool night air hit my face.
“You won’t hurt him, right?” I asked Mr. Buzz Cut, gesturing with my chin towards Max.
“We have no business with him. As long as he doesn’t try to be brave,” the other guy answered, going ahead of us to the driver’s side of their car.
I looked around, registering the silhouettes of people who passed through the walkway, oblivious to what was going on.
But I was too busy considering who exactly was responsible for this kidnapping, and what it all meant for me, to scream.
