Getting to my feet, I wipe at my ear, and my fingers come away with blood, but realize it was minor.
I lower my gun, run over, grab my suitcase, and take off. I pop my head out. The hallway's clear, so I go to the stairwell and run down. As I descend, I glance down at my luggage.
My stomach drops.
The black leather is shredded, holes punched clean through the fabric. I rip it open, my hands shaking.
The laptop.
No.
The screen is shattered, spiderwebbed with cracks. I flip it over. Two bullet holes go right through the back casing.
"Damn it!" I yell, sealing up my luggage.
The only copy of the data. Gone. I hope I can retrieve the hard drive contents later, but right now, I have to move.
I keep running down the stairs and bolt for the back exit.
The private docks are normally quiet, but right now, there are about five people staring at something.
I get closer and...
My mahogany speedboat is half-submerged, sinking slowly into the harbor.
"Motherfuckers."
I turn and sprint toward the front of the hotel, weaving through startled guests and bellhops. I flag down the first taxi I see and hop in.
"Drive. Now."
The driver doesn't respond. He just nods and floors it.
The coastal road blurs past, the Mediterranean sparkling under the morning sun. I lean back in the seat, my jaw tight, my mind racing.
I should walk away. I should fly to Bucharest, tell Lucian what happened, and accept that getting involved with a Bratva cleaner was a mistake. We'll never be able to be together the way I want. Not with her allegiance to a rival family.
But both Ivan and Dimitri are massive problems for my family now, and Dimitri is absolutely guilty. He needs to be put down for what he did to Adrian and Elena.
And if my laptop is destroyed, Danika is the only person I can get to who holds the proof of what Dimitri is up to. Proof we'll need for any kind of leverage.
I need that data to stop this war.
And God help me, I need her.
She thought she could just slip away and close the book on us, but she's wrong. We aren't done.
I lean forward, tapping the plastic partition separating me from the driver.
"Continental Hotel," I say, my voice cold.
22
DANIKA
The taxi smells like stale cigarettes.
I slouch in the backseat, tugging at the hem of Victor's white shirt. It barely covers my thighs, the fabric stained with blood, not mine. The collar hangs loose around my neck, the buttons missing from where I tore them off last night.
