The car slams into our rear fender, metal shrieking as my car spins, tires howling against wet asphalt. I wrench the wheel, my other arm shooting out in front of Gabriella, pinning her to the seat and holding her in place.
Mercifully, we don’t hit a full spin. The SUV is in the middle of the road now, its massive form jutting across multiple lanes. The car’s windows are blacked-out—no chance of seeing inside.
“Sasha…” Gabriella’s chest rises and falls quickly, her eyes wide.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I think so.”
With a fluid motion, I reach forward and flick open the glove compartment, a silver Baretta waiting for me. I grab the gun, flick off the safety, and put my hand on the driver’s-side door handle.
In the rearview mirror, I watch the SUV. It lingers in the road, engine rumbling. A gash is cut through the front-side fender from the impact, but the car is otherwise in good shape. My eyes stay fixed on the SUV, my body tense, ready for a squad of goons to pour out at any moment. I’m outgunned, but I don’t care.
To my surprise, the SUV slowly, carefully pulls a three-point turn into the opposite-side lane. Once in position, it moves slowly forward, away from us, down to the end of the block. Then it turns. The driver even makes sure to use the turn signal.
After a moment, I pull the car back onto the road.
“Need to get out of here before the cops show up,” I say out loud, more to myself than to her.
Thankfully, the block is a low-traffic area. Only a few other cars were on the road during the accident, and they didn’t seem too eager to stick around.
The safety on my pistol clicks softly, and I tuck it between my leg and the seat.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
Gabriella nods once, then twice. “I… Yeah. Yeah. I want to go home.”
“Call Bogdan,” I say to the car’s speaker.
Bogdan picks up on the second ring. In all the years we’ve worked together, I don’t think he’s ever let it ring three times.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Another attempt,” I say.
“Blyad,” he curses. “You both okay?”
“Yes. Call the doctor, have her meet us at the apartment. I want Gabriella examined ASAP.”
She opens her mouth, likely to tell me she’s fine and doesn’t need to be checked out. But not a word comes out. No doubt she’s learned by now that when it comes to her health and safety, I always get my way.
“Got it. Get home safe,Pakhan. We can discuss when you’re here.”
I end the call, turning my attention to Gabriella. I grab her hand—it’s shaking mildly. I try to stop it with a squeeze.
“Tell me how you feel.”
“Not great,” she says.
“We’ll be home soon.”
After a silent ten minutes, we arrive at the tower. One elevator ride up and the doors part, spilling us into the secure hush of the penthouse. For now, we’re safe. Gabby’s glued to my side, her hand still trembling in mine.
Our private doctor—Dr. Elena Voss—is already waiting in the living room, sonogram machine positioned near the leather sectional. Bogdan is seated at the kitchen bar. Henods to me as we step into the penthouse but stays in his seat. He knows the time to talk will be later.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Elena,” I say.
She nods. Elena’s dressed in jeans and a John Hopkins sweatshirt. She’s in her early fifties, trim and professional. “You hire a doctor who lives in the same building, this is the kind of service you get,” she says with a small smile. Not to mention that for as much as I’m paying her to be on retainer, she’d better move heaven and earth to be here within minutes when called.
