“He’s not my—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Doesn’t matter what you call him. You’re coming with us, and if you’re smart, you’ll do it quietly.”
“No!” I struggle, kicking and clawing, but it’s no use. He’s dragging me toward a car idling at the end of the alley.
Just as I’m thinking this is it, game over, a shadow detaches itself from the darkness. It moves fast, silent as death, and for a split second, I wonder if Gotham City’s favorite son decided to take a vacation in our shitty little town.
There’s a sickening crunch, and suddenly, Scarface’s arms go slack. I stumble forward, gasping for air, and spin around.
D stands there, backlit by a flickering streetlight, looking like every wet dream and nightmare rolled into one. Scarface is on the ground, not moving. Punching Bag takes one look at D and bolts, tripping over garbage cans in his haste to get away.
D’s eyes lock onto mine, blazing with an anger that makes my stomach clench. “Why is it,” he growls, stalking toward me, “that every time I turn around, you’re neck-deep in shit?”
I open my mouth to snark back, but the words die in my throat as he gets closer. There’s blood on his knuckles, a wild look in his eyes that’s equal parts terrifying and… something else.
He reaches out, his hand cupping my face with a gentleness that belies the violence I just witnessed. “Are you hurt?”
I slap his hand away, my anger bubbling over like a pot of water left too long on the stove.
“Do I look hurt? Jesus fucking Christ, D. I had it under control until you decided to play Russian Batman and bring the whole goddamn Bratva down on my head!”
I’m fuming, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. The Bratva, Christ. They’re like the world’s worst glitter—once you get mixed up in their shit, you never get clean. And now, thanks to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Homicidal here, I’m covered in the stuff.
“You know what? I was doing just fine before you swaggered into my life with your brooding looks and your stupid accent. Now I’ve got mobsters trying to turn me into a flesh piñata in my own goddamn alley!”
I jab a finger into his chest, ignoring how solid it feels. “This is your fault, you hear me? I didn’t ask for this bullshit. I didn’t ask for you to come ‘rescue’ me. And I sure as hell didn’t ask to be caught in the middle of your pissing contest with every lowlife in a three-state radius!”
For a split second, I see something that looks suspiciously like guilt flash across Dimitri’s face. But he shoves it aside faster than I can blink, his features hardening back into that infuriating mask of indifference.
“Good,” he says, his thumb brushing over my cheek in a way that makes me want to bite it. Or maybe just bite him. “Because we need to have a long talk,krasotka. And you’re not going to like what I have to say.”
23
Dimitri
The alley fucking stinks. Piss, rot, and failure. A bloody mess lies crumpled where I left him. Stupidkhuythought he could touch what’s mine.
My boys slide out of the shadows like the trained soldiers they are. No noise; just grab the sack of shit and drag him to the car. He’ll wake up in a world of pain.
I turn back to her.Blyat, she’s a sight.
Blood smeared on her cheek like war paint. My dick’s already half-hard. Stupid fucking thing, reacting at the worst fucking times.
She’s leaning against my car, arms crossed, looking like she wants to set the world on fire. Good luck with that,krasotka.
“Are you fucking going to tell me what’s going on, D? Because I can’t—”
Movement catches my eye. A shadow by the restaurant door. Shit. Someone’s probably calling the cops. Time to go.
“You done bitching, krasotka?” I snarl, cutting her off.
She’s in my face in a second. “Bitching? You fucking piece of—”
I grab her arm, squeezing just shy of bruising. “Shut your mouth and use your ears. You’re in deep shit now.”
“Because of you, asshole!”
“No shit. But crying about it won’t save your ass when they come for you.”
