Page 94 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“We have to move,” I say. “There could be more. The staff?”

“All accounted for.”

I stand up, pulling her with me. I keep her behind me, shielding her with my body as we move through the wreckage of the apartment.

We reach the service elevator. It’s still waiting. I smash the button, keeping my weapon raised. The doors slide shut, sealing us inside.

I lower my gun, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me shaky and weak.

She’s clinging to me, her face buried in my chest. She’s sobbing, silent, racking sobs that shake her entire body.

“Shh,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her. “It’s over.”

“It’s not over,” she cries. “They almost… they almost…”

“But they didn’t.”

I hold her tighter, feeling the frantic beat of her heart against mine. I stroke her hair, murmuring meaningless reassurances.

Lorenzo. He did this. He came into my home and threatened my wife. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to tear him apart, piece by piece, and feed him to the sharks.

First, I have to keep her safe.

***

We don’t stay at the penthouse. We can’t. It’s a crime scene now, a tomb.

We go to a hotel while Yuri sets up the safe house for long-time use. It’s a small, discreet place in the Village that I own under a shell company. It’s not a fortress, but it’s off the grid. Safe.

The room is small, dingy. The carpet is stained, the wallpaper peeling. The bed is big, and the lock works.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her.

She’s sitting in the armchair, her knees pulled up to her chest. She’s stopped crying, but she looks small. Fragile.

“Let me see,” I say, gesturing to the graze on my side.

She stands up slowly, walking over to me. She gently lifts my shirt, exposing the angry red line across my ribs. It’s shallow, but it hurts like hell.

She cleans it with water from the bathroom, her touch featherlight. She bandages it with a kit she found under the sink, her fingers shaking.

“You need a doctor,” she says.

“No doctors.”

“Nikita—”

“No doctors,” I repeat, catching her hand. “It’s just a scratch.”

She looks at me, her eyes searching my face. She sees the pain, but she also sees the resolve.

“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon.”