Page 63 of Her Courage

Kaleb was on his feet instantly, understanding flooding his features. "Lottie, come here."

But our girl stayed rooted in place, her eyes darting between me and the approaching men. "Andrei?"

"Kroshka, I need you to move. Now." I kept my voice low, controlled, even as adrenaline flooded my system. Years of training kicked in—assess threats, protect assets, prepare for engagement.

Lottie was my most precious asset.

The two men were almost at our table when a figure materialized from the shadows near the kitchen entrance.

Mikhail.

Fucking perfect timing.

My cousin's best friend moved with deadly precision, intercepting the first man with a grip on his shoulder that made the threat stumble. The second man's hand went to his jacket—reaching for a weapon.

Before he could draw it, Mikhail had him spun around, arm wrenched behind his back in a hold I recognized from our training days.

"I wouldn't," Mikhail said quietly in Russian, his voice a low rumble that carried threat despite its volume.

The restaurant erupted into chaos—screams, chairs toppling as patrons scrambled for exits.

"Get her out," I barked at Colby, who was already moving.

He grabbed Lottie, lifting her from her chair despite her protests.

"No! Andrei—what's happening—you could get hurt⁠—"

Tears streamed down her face as Colby half-carried her toward the exit. Kaleb moved to follow, but I grabbed his arm.

"Make sure she's safe. Take her home. Now."

"Andrei—"

"Now, Kaleb." I met his eyes, letting him see the absolute resolve there. "I'll handle this."

He hesitated for only a heartbeat before nodding and turning to sprint after Colby and Lottie.

The waiter had backed against the wall, hands raised. "I didn't know—they paid me⁠—"

"Shut up," I snapped, advancing on him. "Who sent the drinks?"

"I don't⁠—"

My hand slammed against the wall beside his head, making him flinch. "Wrong answer. Try again."

"A woman! Some blonde woman came in earlier, said to wait for four people matching your description, said she'd pay me a thousand dollars to spike your drinks with the stuff she left⁠—"

"Where?" I demanded.

"Behind the bar—please, I didn't know it was anything serious, I thought it was just a prank⁠—"

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Someone had called the police.

Mikhail appeared at my shoulder, the two men now secured with zip ties and sitting on the floor. "We need to leave before authorities arrive," he said in Russian. "You can't be connected to this."

He was right. Questions about my past, about my connections—none of that could surface. Not now.

"The woman who approached the waiter," I said, switching to Russian. "Blonde. Middle-aged. Expensive clothes."