Another shiver runs up my spine. What the hell is up with me today?
“I thought we were done here.”
“Silence.” He comes up behind me and pins a hand to my back. That hot, minty breath again… He exhales, and the nape of my neck explodes with tingles.
Seriously, girl?
For a moment, I forget why I came here in the first place. That’s the danger when it comes to guys like him. They make you forget important things.
He opens the door and guides me back out into the lobby, up to one of the security guards. “Escort her off the property.”
The guard cuffs me with his bare hands. “Yes, sir.”
Shit!
“No! Wait!” I wrestle out of the security guard’s grasp. “You don’t understand!”
This brings over another nearby security guard. He touches something in his earpiece, squinting to listen to the message atop my screaming.
Then, he turns to me. “Mr. Rogov doesn’t have time for this.”
Mr. Rogov?
As in Nikolai Rogov?
The name is like a slap in the face.
I turn and look at him, already walking away from the scene. Of course, it’s him. Father has told me about him a few times—Atlanta’s most brutal crime lord. He’s the leader of his own syndicate, and apparently the two of them have crossed paths already. Father says it’s best to avoid him. That he’s possessed by the devil and doesn’t have a functioning brain.
I guess I didn’t expect him to be the guy standing next to me.
I also didn’t realize Bratva leaders could be so handsome, considering the high amounts of stress that they are put under. I expected Mr. Rogov to have no hair, a beer belly, and a severe case of crow’s feet, but instead he looks like the cover model for the next Dior Sauvage cologne campaign with all his tattoos, bronzed skin and piercing blue eyes.
I’m thrown forward by the security guard and ushered outside down a long driveway. The thug unlocks the gate with something that isn’t a key, and then chucks me out the same way one tosses out trash.
This only angers me more.
“No, please!” I squirm out of his grasp. “You don’t understand. Sophia can’t marry that—”
BANG!
And that’s how the security guard feels about the situation, shutting the gate in my face. I curl my hands around the bars like I’m serving time, and stick my nose through the small gap in the bars as he strides back inside. Even the gates stink of money— made of chrome gold. Father never had this kind of wealth. I always thought he had it all because investment bankers makebankwhen you know how to play the game. But it appears I got it all wrong. The money isn’t in banking. It’s in organized crime.
I sigh and throw my head into the gate, feeling defeated.
This can’t be how it ends.
Four years ago, these guys shot a bullet straight through Mom’s heart. It’s only a matter of time before they do that to Sophia too.
I slam against the gate. Close my hands into fists and shake the thing with what little strength I have left. It’s useless, of course. The thing is as tough as its owner.
I turn around and see a white van pull up. The engine dies, and then people file out in catering uniform, aprons tied around their waists. The back opens up, a slope hits the ground, and caterers start wheeling things out. Trays. Spare uniforms. Cooking supplies.
The gate cranks open, and three security guards approach to welcome the caterers inside.
Maybe not all hope is lost.
I duck under a nearby parked car, my back pressed up against the metal. Hearing distant chatter, I raise just enough to watch what’s going on through the car window. Security guards, still wearing the same poker-faced expressions, check their badges, and then escort the caterers and their rattling trays inside.
