Page 6 of Bratva's Secret Girl

“They were presents for my girlfriend if she behaved like my girlfriend,” he spits. “But if she wants to be a little prick-tease, then no. She pays up. Or gives them back.”

“If you’re as rich as you said?—”

“I need the money, okay,” he snarls. “And I don’t like being jerked around.”

“Dude, just tell her that you owe Camden money and don’t want to tell your dad,” one of his friends mutters.

“Where’s Payton?” Ivan demands. “And my money for the gifts—stuff I gave that whore.”

“I haven’t got anything for you.” I use the firm voice that I use with Payton when she’s being whiney. But my whole body is trembling, and not in a good sexy way like when Maxim laughs at my crap jokes. Terror is such an insubstantial word compared to the sensation. “And neither has Payton.”

I’m sure my sister was being honest with me, but I’m also really hoping she still has all the presents so she can return them.

“Fine. Give me what’s in the till.” He makes an impatient gesture with his hand.

I should. Money is replaceable.

But I think of my boss. He wears a sharp suit, but this café isn’t profitable, and I don’t think many of the Lazy Bean cafés are. He’s tattooed and gruff, like he fought his way up in life, and why should this stupid kid take his money?

“No.” It’s not mine, it’s my boss’, and it’s what pays my wages.

In short, it’s not Ivan’s.

He sneers. “Give me the fucking money or I’ll blow your head off.”

Oh god, I’m going to vomit.

“It’s really not that much.” This might be foolish, but seriously? Ivan gave my sister that stuff as presents, and now this is just straight-up theft, and that’s not cool.

“Prefer to pay another way, would you?” He moves forwards, flicking the countertop open, and I back away. I shouldn’t have said that. What was I thinking? I’m loyal to my boss, but Ivan is serious. “What do you think, lads?” he tosses this comment over his shoulder. “Is she pretty enough to use? Maybe with a bag over her?—”

He’s blasted to the side, and a scream is torn from my throat as the sound and shock smash through me too.

Red. Blood. His head has a hole and his eyes are staring, glazed.

Blood is sprayed over the wall, and me, and he falls as more gunshots explode in the room.

I drop to the floor and scuttle into the little nook beside the fridge, my heart slamming into my neck.

Curling into a ball, as far from the noise as I can get, given there isn’t much space, I screw my eyes shut as the shots continue in irregular bursts, with shouts in Russian from Ivan’s friends.

I slap my hand over my mouth to keep a sob from rising up as my chest heaves with fear so potent it has taken over my whole body.

Then there’s silence.

The rustle of fabric, and a groan.

I open my eyes, and swallow, pressing my fingers tighter onto my lips.

Another shot makes me flinch.

“You touched what’s mine,” says a deep, harsh voice. “You die.”

My brain can’t process what that means over the slow thud of a man’s steps. Deliberate. Measured.

Getting closer.

And nearer again.