Sure, he’s one of the assholes who kidnapped me, maybe even the guy who shot Bogdan. But in that moment, his reassurances make me feel just a tiny bit better.
Scar Jaw shoves me forward. That prick, on the other hand, can go eat a dick.
“Delivery for you, ma’am,” he says with a smirk.
Ruth offers a soft, lovely smile in response, like she’s out at brunch and her meal looks even better than she’d hoped.
“Thank you, boys,” she says.
The guys still hold my arms, waiting for instructions. The goons next to her stand silently. Waiting. Something’s wrong.
“So,” Scar-Jaw says, “you good here with her? We’ll be waiting outside.”
“Then we take her back,” Pale Guy clarifies. “Unharmed.”
Ruth says nothing, instead looking us all over carefully. Not just me. All of us. She turns her attention to the driver.
“Did he try to call it off?”
“Sure did,” the driver says. “Texted and called.”
“Wait, what?” Pale Guy asks. “Morozov called it off?”
Something’s verywrong.
“And you didn’t answer or respond, I assume?” Ruth inquires.
“Nope,” the driver says.
Pale Guy steps forward. “What the fuck is going on?”
“You’re paying me extra for this, right?” the driver asks.
“Something like that,” Ruth answers. Then she turns to her men. “Do it.”
Everything happens so quickly. The Irish men take out their pistols, raise them.
“No, wait!” the driver shouts, lifting his hands.
The gunshots echo through the expanse of the warehouse, the sound deafening. I cover my ears, scream, and drop low.
When the gunfire ends, I realize I’m still screaming, crouched over, my head between my arms. I stop. There’s silence—silence and that horrible acrid smell of gunpowder in the air. I hate that I know what it smells like.
My heart’s racing, but I manage to force my eyes open to look around. The men who brought me here are stone-still on the ground, dark pools of fresh blood blooming under them. I flick my eyes to Ruth. The men are still holding their guns. I wonder if they’re waiting for the final command to finish me off.
“Listen, Gabriella,” she says, stepping delicately between the bodies and blood, as if avoiding rain puddles. “No theatrics, please. I need you to listen.”
One of the Irish men moves forward with speed I wouldn’texpect from a man his size. He clamps a hand around my bicep.
“Why?” I gasp. “Why would you?—”
Ruth tilts her head in curiosity, just as confused as to why I don’t immediately understand. “Those men were Peter’s men,” she says. “And Peter’s men have outlived their usefulness.”
My body goes numb. Peter took me but wanted me safe, unharmed. But now Ruth is in control.
“What do you want?”
“You, obviously.”
