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I try to unlock the phone with facial recognition again.

Cursing when it doesn’t work, I crawl across the floor, over his blood, and snatch his gun, just in case.

Two guns are always better than one, especially when dealing with psychopaths.

“Open the door and let me find out myself, cunt,” the man says, and it sounds like he’s kicking the door.

Turning the shower on again, I strip out of my clothes and change into Dima’s robe. I drop the gun and scissors in the robe’s pocket and race toward the bedroom door, wiping off any blood on me on the way.

The guy stops his kicking when I crack the door open.

He tries to open it farther, but I block his way into the room.

I rest my hand on my hip, staring him down. “Dima is not happy about you interrupting our shower.”

“Dima doesn’t shower in the middle of the day.”

“We got kind of dirty … you know …”

A sinister smirk forms on his face as his eyes roam down my body. “I don’t believe you.” He shoves me out of the way.

I stumble back as he forces himself into the room.

I’m so screwed.

As soon as his back is to me, I raise my gun and shoot.

The first shot misses him, hitting the wall.

My pulse races.

My hands start shaking.

I have to be quick.

He turns, grabbing for his gun. I white-knuckle the gun, touching the trigger, and I shoot again just as he’s facing me. He falls back a step as a bullet connects with his face. His body sways to the side, and he’s struggling to grip his gun.

Not wanting to risk his men hearing another gunshot, I pull out the scissors and charge toward him. He drops the gun, and I raise my arm, stabbing him in the neck and pushing him down.

He collapses onto the carpet with a heavy thud. Blood gushes from his cheek and neck as I stab him again and again.

I stare down at his dead, bloody body when I’m finished.

I jump to my feet, close and lock the bedroom door, and fall next to Dima’s dead man. Blood seeps around his body, his eyes wide open and his thumb still on the gun.

“Tell me you have one,” I mutter to myself, searching for his phone.

My adrenaline pumps out of control.

“Yes!” I whisper to myself when I find the flip phone.

I open it, finding everything in Russian.

That’s at least one good thing I can appreciate my father for—making sure I knew how to speak the language of the men he sold me to.

I’m nearly out of breath, nearly in a daze, as I realize I don’t know Julian’s number by heart.

Out of options, I dial 911.