He probably heard the guards coming before they even knocked. He probably slipped out a window, disappeared into the streets, and he's already on a plane back to Romania.
He's fine. He has to be fine.
But the thought that he might not be, that he might actually be dead, sends a wave of dread over my entire body.
It's worse than the fear of my own death.
Shit.
All my training, my discipline, my carefully constructed walls, gone. Because this isn't about Ivan. This isn't about the Bratva. This is about Victor.
The realization crashes over me like a physical blow, and I can't fight it anymore.
I care about him.
More than I care about completing the mission, about pleasing Ivan, about proving my loyalty to the Bratva.
I care about Victor surviving more than I care about my own life.
The thought is terrifying.
I've never allowed myself to feel this way about anyone. I've never allowed myself to need anyone. I've spent my entire life alone, by choice, because needing someone makes you weak.
And now, lying in the back of this SUV, bound and blindfolded and at the mercy of men who want to kill me, I finally understand what weakness feels like.
It feels like this.
Like the crushing weight of realizing that the person you care about might be dead, and you'll never get to tell them that they mattered.
Please don't be dead.
I hate how desperate the thought sounds, even in my own head.
I hate that I'm lying here, hoping, praying, begging the universe for something I know I don't deserve.
Victor should've killed me when he had the chance. He should've put a bullet in my head the moment he saw me again.
Instead, he danced with me. He kissed me. He trusted me enough to let me into that penthouse, to let me see him vulnerable.
And I left him.
I'm so stupid.
The car slows, and I feel the tires crunch over gravel. We're turning onto a driveway, steep, judging by the angle of my body.
Heavy gates groan open somewhere ahead.
The guards in the front seats stop talking.
I lie perfectly still, trying to listen, trying to map out where we are. But all I can hear is the engine, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires, and the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.
We're almost there.
Wherever "there" is.
The logical side of my brain knows what's coming. Dimitri will take me somewhere private, somewhere soundproofed. He'll tie me to a chair, and he'll ask me where the data is. He'll start with threats, then move to pain, and he won't stop until I give him what he wants.
And even if I do, he'll kill me anyway.
