Page 3 of His Forced Bride

"Shh," I say, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

"Look outside. Tell me what you see."

She moves to the window, pressing her face close to the glass.

The color drains from her cheeks as she watches the vehicles complete another circuit of the block.

"Those aren't delivery trucks or customers. They're watching the building. Do you think they're watching you?"

She knows how dangerous this wedding will be for us all.

The marriage of two families in St Petersburg’s crime world catches some very unwanted attention at times.

Batya warned me there would be pressure from other syndicates over our alliance with the Gravitch family.

I dial his number again, my fingers trembling against the screen.

This time, the call goes straight to voicemail, his familiar voice telling me to leave a message and he'll return it as soon as possible.

The normalcy of his recorded greeting feels surreal against the growing terror that claws at my chest as I take Alina's arm and tug her away from the glass.

It's not bullet proof, and I don't know what those SUVs are here for.

"Batya, it's me. There are cars outside the showroom, and I can't reach you. Please call me back immediately."

The third SUV has stopped at the corner, engine idling.

Through the windshield, I can make out the silhouette of the driver, but his features remain hidden in shadow.

My mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last.

Did someone discover the money laundering operation Batya thought he'd hidden so carefully?

Are these state agents preparing to raid the building?

Or worse, are they connected to one of the Gravitch family's many enemies?

"We should leave," Alina says, following me away from the window. "Right now. Through the back exit."

"No," I snip. We're safer here than out there with them.

"Batya is supposed to pick me up here. If we leave, he won't know where to find us."

My rationalization is weak.

I'm still just a child inside my heart where I expect my father to rescue me.

But even as I say it, I know she's right.

Every instinct screams at me to run, to get as far from this building as possible before whatever's about to happen unfolds.

I've lived on the periphery of Batya's business long enough to recognize the signs of impending violence.

I start to lift the wedding dress over my head, desperate to get out of the silk that suddenly feels suffocating.

But the fabric clings to my ribs, and the zipper sticks in place.

"Here," she says, grabbing my street clothes from the chair where I'd left them. "Hurry."