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“Keep your head down. Look at no one,” he murmurs. “I have to take care of this.”

“I know. Of course. Yes, sir.”

So fucking gross.

From where I sit, I take in every detail I can. He’s on his phone again—ten feet away—muttering into the mic like a dumbass. As if Matvei and his entire bloodline aren’t coming for me. As if I’d ever go with this asshole willingly.

Fucking idiot.

Someone catches my eye. A woman at the bar. She sees me, and at first, there’s recognition in her eyes. She raises a hand, then freezes when she sees who I’m with.

Does she think I’m Polina?

But then something shifts, and her eyes sharpen. She looks at him, then back at me.

Slowly, she turns her palm up in a silent gesture of… help?

Her brows rise in the universal question: Is this your choice? Are you here willingly?

I glance at him. Then back at her.

I shake my head.

Her back straightens, and her expression turns ice cold.

She leans in to whisper to another woman at the bar—someone vaguely familiar, though I can’t place her.

They murmur. Point discreetly.

The bartender takes out a phone. Her fingers move fast.

My heart turns in my chest.

Does she know who he is? Does she knowwhathe is?

Cillian drops back into the seat next to me just as the waitress arrives.

“Two Guinness,” he barks.

I hate beer.

The tray comes, and with it, a sweet smile from the waitress and a napkin she slides across to me.

Cillian’s distracted, back on his phone again.

I glance down. “Are you here against your will?”

One side reads YES, the other NO.

I tear off the NO, smile, and push it back to her. She returns to the bar, where the three women huddle again, whispering.

Cillian’s a big man—brutal, tattooed, and armed.

I can’t take him on alone.

What’s their plan?

What’s next?