Page 42 of Claimed By the Boss

“We hold?”

“For now.”

Another barrage. This time I see the muzzle flashes, brief orange sparks just beyond the front vehicle. Whoever’s out there isn’t being subtle. They want this to be loud. They want a message delivered.

I raise my voice. “Which direction’s the back alley?”

He glances at the rearview mirror. “Four o’clock. One car behind.”

I weigh it. We can’t stay here. Eventually, the safeguards will fail.

“Smoke and run,” I say. “On three.”

He nods without hesitation.

I count under my breath, then throw the rear door open and fire twice in the direction of the closest muzzle flash. Anton does the same from the driver’s side. It’s enough to startle them and we bolt at the opportunity.

Gunfire follows us, ripping through the air. I duck low and sprint beside Anton, both of us using the broken line of parked cars for cover. Someone shouts in Russian.

Another shot hits the bumper inches from my shoulder, too close. I turn and fire back blindly. We round the corner. The alley is narrow, half-lit by a failing streetlamp. Anton slows long enough to check the end.

Then he grunts. “I think we—shit?—”

Sirens wail in the distance now, faint, but getting louder. That’s our cue. The Vasilievs don’t want cops any more than I do. They’ll scatter. I count five shooters. Maybe more.

A black SUV screeches around the far corner just as we reach the other end of the alley. But they don’t come after us. They just drift sideways, forming a blockade, then peel off into the night.

My breath is shallow, but steady. My heart’s thudding, but I’m used to that. I don’t scare easily. Not even when they’re clearly trying to kill me.

Anton stumbles to a stop beside me, and that’s when I see the dark stain blooming under his arm.

“Fuck,” I mutter, reaching out to catch him.

“I didn’t even feel it,” he says, voice tight.

Adrenaline will do that to someone. I push him down onto the curb and press my hand to the wound. It’s not pumping like an artery, but it’s not surface-level either.

“You’re lucky,” I say. “Another inch and we’d be having a different conversation.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out strangled.

I pull my phone from my coat and dial Viktor.

“I need the table prepped,” I say. “Chest wound. Shallow. Bleeding moderately. ETA eight minutes.”

Viktor doesn’t waste time asking questions. “I’ll meet you at the rear entrance.”

I hang up and switch lines.

Alek answers on the first ring. “What’s going on?”

“They just tried to clip me,” I say. “Three SUVs. Definitely Vasilievs.”

There’s silence on the other end for a few seconds.

“Are you hurt?”

“Anton’s been hit, but I’m fine. I’m taking him to Viktor now.”