Page 162 of Bratva Jewels Box Set

“Like I said before, I’m the bad guy here, you should remember

that.”

I pick up a vase sitting on the table beside me and throw it at the

wall. “Fuck you, Maxim. Go find your fucking sister without my

help,” I scream at him as I storm off. How the hell have things gone so wrong.

“What the fuck did you say?” he asks as he grabs me. His fingers dig into my arm as he turns me around to face him.

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter,” I scream as I rip my arm from his grasp and bolt up the stairs.

“Grace, come back here!” he screams after me. He’s a little slower than he normally is thanks to the bullet wound.

I slam my bedroom door shut in his face and take a couple of deep breaths until I notice the internal door between our bedrooms is open thanks to my laziness to walk around between the rooms this morning. I rush toward it, but he beats me to it.

He stands there, hand on the door, chest heaving, eyes dark. He starts stalking me like I’m his prey as I move backward from him.

“I’m only going to ask once more, Grace. What did you mean,“go find my sister”?”

I move backward until my legs hit the wardrobe, then watch as Maxim advances on me. My heart is racing, and now I can see the deadly assassin I have been living with.

“I know your sister,” I spit at him.

Maxim freezes. “What did you say?” His voice is calm but steely.

“I saw that picture in your office. I didn’t understand why Emerald was in it with you.”

“Emerald?” He looks confused. “My sisters’ names are Elena and Alexandria.”

“It was Elena. I knew her as Emerald.”

He shakes his head, not quite believing me. “No, you’re mistaken,

my sister is dead—dead!” He pushes his finger in my face.

“She’s not, Maxim. She’s alive. I promise you she’s alive. If you let me speak to my sister, she will tell you that girl in the photo is Emerald. She’s a jewel.”

His hand slaps the wardrobe, making me jump. “So, this is your plan, is it? Make up a story about my dead sister, hoping I’ll let you go. Fuck

you, Grace Clark! Fuck you.” He storms off, slamming the internal door between our bedrooms, and I hear the lock click into place.

I slide down the wardrobe, shaking. No, fuck him. If he doesn’t want to believe that his dead sister is alive, then that’s his choice. I told him, he didn’t believe me; nothing more I can do.

Standing on shaky legs, I open the wardrobe, pulling out a pair of sandshoes and grabbing a jumper. I’m not staying here anymore. This time I know exactly where the cameras are—I’ve been taking walks around the property, looking for any chinks in the system. No system is one hundred percent. Brooks’s and his boys taught me that.

I sneak out of my bedroom and creep down the stairs hoping not to alert a very angry Maxim. I’m hoping Sergei is busy dealing with Maxim’s meltdown. I’m going to try a different route. I notice off the corridor there’s an exit to the garages beside the front foyer, a route I haven’t taken before but one that doesn’t seem to be busy. This time I choose to not escape through the vines, too many variables, and my legs are not made for long-distance running. I need something more powerful than what nature gave me. Over the course of my stay, I’ve noticed that they sometimes leave the keys in the cars because who the hell would steal a hitman’s car? I follow the paved driveway that leads me to the garages. When I look inside the large building it is filled with every imaginable boy toy. But I’m not interested in the cars, I’m interested in finding one with keys in it.

Then I spot the Maserati that Maxim drove back to the villa. The back window has been blown out and so has the driver’s window, but that’s still drivable, isn’t it? I look inside for the keys but don’t see anything. Then I notice the remote and a push-button to start the car. Of course it’s one of those fancy keyless cars, and the remote must be the key. I open the door and jump in, then press the ignition button, and the bad boy roars to life. Ignoring the dried blood on the leather seats from Maxim, I fasten my seat belt and slowly reverse the car, hoping nobody notices me. I put it into drive and make my way down the long and winding driveway. There’s a gate, shit, where’s the—it opens automatically for the car. Yes. My heart is racing. I can’t believe this is happening, that I might escape.

I take a deep breath, look to the left then the right to make sure no one is coming, and put my foot on the gas. This bad boy takes off like a bat out of hell. As soon as I make it to the open highway, I can breathe a little. “Fuck, yes!” I yell, thumping my hands on the steering wheel.

I’m free.

The GPS navigator lights up, and I type in my sister’s address in Ibiza to work out how long it would take me to get from Italy to Spain. Apparently, it is going to take me eighteen hours, and I must pass through Italy, Monaco, France, and then Spain. I don’t think I’m going to have enough fuel for that. I guess I’ll just drive until I can find someone to let me use their phone. I want to put as much distance between me and Maxim as I can before I stop.

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