Page 205 of Nothing More

But, no. These were men. One under forty, one older.

They had Raven’s eyes, though, those vivid, startling blue eyes that had arrested him from an eighty-foot billboard when he was fifteen.

He tried to speak, but didn’t know if he managed, or if what he said made any sense.

Someone touched his shoulder, and he flinched.

“Shit,” one of the men said again, and it was Devin Green. “Poor sod. Come on, lad. Let’s get you home.”

~*~

Ian withdrew a fat envelope from inside his jacket and dropped it on the table. It landed like a brick. “Consider that a deposit,” he said. “Buying your favor.” Hands free, he stuffed his bright hair back up into his beanie.

Misha studied the envelope of cash a long moment before he finally grabbed it.

Raven’s stomach somersaulted with a relief so acute it left her nauseated.

“Brilliant,” she said, affecting steady as she stood, Ian rising at her side to slide an arm around her waist in silent, necessary support. “We’ll meet you at the drop point in two hours, then.”

Misha was grim-faced, but nodded. “Da.”

Every muscle in her body tensed as they turned their backs on Misha and his men, prepared to be shot in the back. But she put one foot in front of the other, and Ian towed her along, and they walked, and they walked…and then they were on the stairs, and then down them, and then skirting the dance floor again.

The dark of the club swirled around her in a blur of lights and golden picture frames; her breathing picked up as they sped along, and she nearly choked on the layers of competing perfume and cologne.

“Almost there,” Ian murmured, at one point, hand tightening around her ribs.

She repeated it in her head, a chant like a talisman. Almost there, almost there.

And then, suddenly, they were out the door, slapped in the face by the cold and wind.

Raven pulled up short, stopped by Ian’s grip, struggling to get her vision clear after the club. Outside it was dark in a wholly different way, the street smothered in greasy orange light from the streetlights and building windows.

“Where–” she started, and then a horn honked, and Ian’s sleek black Jag was screeching to a halt at the curb.

“Come on.” Ian lunged for it, all but dragging her along. The door opened from the inside and they tumbled down into the warm leather seats.

The door slammed, and they peeled away from the curb and into traffic.

“We made it,” she said, panting aloud, heart thundering. “Oh God, we…wait.” She scrabbled at her pockets for her phone. “What about–”

In the front passenger seat, Alec twisted around to peer back at her; his teeth flashed as he grinned. “I just talked to your dad. It’s all good. They got him.”

Her heart stopped. “They did? Really?”

“Really.” Alec reached back between the seats, and she clutched his hand like a lifeline. Ian put his arm around her shoulders and held her tight; she realized she was shaking. “They’re headed back for the safehouse now. Rosovsky’s dead, and they have Toly, safe and sound.”

“Oh.” She breathed out. In. “Oh, that’s…”

Then the tears came, loud and big and ugly and unstoppable.

Alec held her hand, and Ian stroked her hair, and if anyone had to see her break down, she was glad it was them. Glad also of their hope, and their love…of them being a part of her family, which already felt whole again, as they raced to see Toly.

~*~

Three hours later, Tenny, Reese, Pongo, and Topino strolled into a dingy warehouse basement lit with construction lights, teeming with outlaws of every size, shape, and nationality, dozens of languages flying back and forth across hastily set up folding tables loaded with auction items. Each of them was flying their colors, cuts on full display, and each carried a heavy duffel bag that clinked on every step.

They found Ilya and his brothers Serge and Pavel seated with a group of bratva thugs loyal to them, and to Andrei Kozlov, by default. Too snazzily dressed by half, picking their nails with knives and shooting dark looks at passersby.