Page 13 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

It’s weakness.

“Think if I ask nicely they’ll let her walk away?” He poses the question to the sky as he tucks his hands into his pockets, his stroll leisurely.

I’m almost fooled. Almost. But he’s scanning the road, hunting the face of every pedestrian who rushes past.

“I think you’re going to get yourself killed,” I tell him truthfully. What a waste. That angelic face will be mutilated by the blow from some thug’s fist—if he’s not lucky enough to get a bullet to the head.

“Oh, I already know that.” He stares me down head on, and a slight tilt renders his pretty smile a little less innocent. “That doesn’t mean it has to happen today though.”

“W-wait—”

I’m left reeling as he picks up speed before slowing down as we near the precinct. He decides to cross the street toward a bodega. Then he cuts through an alley, and we linger near the mouth of it, assaulted by the stench of rotting garbage wafting from a row of trash cans a few yards down.

He surveys the front of the police station, and I copy him.

Vagrants and detectives alike go in and out.

I recognize some of them, though distantly.

It’s like I’m viewing a slideshow of someone else’s life.

Maybe I read the summary somewhere, but I forgot the context.

Wholesome rookie cop transfers from a Podunk town in Montana—only she’s not so wholesome, and Newtown was never her home.

“There she is,” Espisido whispers.

A woman exits the front of the station, her dark hair a ratty mess, her blue eyes bloodshot. The man beside me tenses up, but he doesn’t start forward. He merely whistles.

I don’t know how the sharp sound manages to cut over the bustle of early morning traffic, but the woman flinches, her gaze flitting in our direction.

Another whistle and she takes off, descending the curb and cutting through traffic.

She’s fast, but when a man climbs out of a dark van parked a block away, my heart lurches ominously.

“Shit.” Espisido hisses through his teeth. This must have been his plan after all—hope that he could beat them to her. “Get back.”

We move deeper into the alley, but he doesn’t take his gaze off the girl once. The brute on her tail is all muscle. He cracks his knuckles with every step he takes, his eyes narrowed over his prey.

A terrifying realization hits me like a punch to the stomach—She won’t be fast enough. Maybe Espisido knows that too, because he’s inching backward until we’re out of sight, tucked around where the alley turns.

The girl falters just beyond the bodega. Another low whistle draws her closer. By then, it’s already too fucking late.

“No.” A hand descends over my shoulder before I even register moving. Espisido. “It’s okay,” he says.

But all he does is whistle again.

The sound lures the girl a few steps closer.

She’s nearly halfway into the alley by the time the thug catches up.

His size alone blocks the entrance, rendering our direction as her only exit—not that she makes it that far.

With the ease of a hand swatting a fly, the man snatches her wrist and hauls her backward.

I’m close enough to make out the words he snarls to her in Russian.

“ Where the hell were you going? Get to the van! ”

“ No !” She tries in vain to push him off, but the bastard’s already forming a fist, aiming it at her chest.

“Wait here,” Espisido speaks directly into my ear this time.

The next moment, I’m staring at the back of his head.

He’s drawn his hood low, his gait unsteady.

One of his hands pulls something from his pocket.

It’s small, cylindrical. A syringe? If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume he was a druggie, too damn high to even notice the scene unfolding in front of him .

The bastard has Domi by the waist now. She’s flailing, struggling to keep her feet on the ground.

“Excuse me.” An almost comical scene interrupts the horror—a stoned druggie stumbling into the thug’s side.

He draws away with an apology, continuing his listless walk toward the mouth of the alley.

He’s only a few feet away when the Russian starts with a grunt.

One of his meaty hands loses its grip on Domi and swipes at his neck.

“What the hell?”

The lanky figure turns, blue eyes gleaming through shadow. “Domi, run!”

It all happens too fast. The girl takes off in my direction while the thug whirls on Espisido.

He found a rock from somewhere. Like a ballerina on lithe feet, he dodges the punch the man throws at him and aims a blow of his own.

One sickening thud and the bastard staggers into the wall, groaning out curses.

The blow alone won’t down him, but something tells me that whatever Espisido injected into his veins will.

But the brief advantage won’t last in the long run. It could take minutes before the drug takes effect—and Piotr’s men never go out alone.

Espisido meets my gaze as Domi races between us. “Go!”

He nods to where the alley extends, and my hand flies out, seizing a bony wrist. I use it like a leash to tug her after me, around the corner. Grunts echo behind us. Another thud. A groan…

Not his . I feed myself that lie even though it’s stupid to care. Luckily, Domi doesn’t need much persuasion to run.

We cut through alleys, sidestepping curious shop owners taking the trash out and yawning workers starting their commutes.

My heart won’t stop pounding. Few people are wandering the streets, but I scan their faces one by one.

Hunting. Searching. The lanky man a block down isn’t wearing a hoodie.

Neither is the figure exiting a building up ahead .

But their eyes follow us. Every road for at least a mile, runs straight through the heart of the Syndicate. We’re walking targets for any snitch looking to win favor with Piotr—at this rate, we won’t make it another block, let alone to safety.

Unless…

I don’t think. Instead, I steer Domi down a side street and grit my teeth at the sight appearing up ahead—an auto mechanic shop notorious even to the police.

Some days, the man who runs it restores vintage cars for wealthy clients.

Others, he smuggles cocaine into trucks that are towed across state lines.

It’s all in a day’s work for the main distribution branch of the Syndicate.

A shudder racks my spine as I cross the road and approach the building from the front with Domi in tow. Near the side entrance, hidden from the street, I turn her face me. “Wait here.”

“What about him?” Wide-eyed, she gazes back the way we came. “We need to—”

“Trust me.” I don’t give her the chance to argue, and I slip around the front of the building just as a familiar van turns the corner. Shit.

I enter the building without thinking through the consequences.

A raised garage door reveals the car being restored here now—a vintage Volvo.

With no worker in sight, it looks like an unexpected windfall for any thief worth their salt, but none of them venture here for a reason—only a fool would steal from Ivan Ivanov.

I find him in the main shop when I finally gather the nerve to tug the glass door open and step inside.

It’s like walking back in time. The small, square room even smells the same, though some of the furniture is new—a black leather couch in the lobby and a flat-screen television mounted on the wall.

Living under the protection of the Petrovs, he’s done well for himself, it seems. When I spot him, his back is to me as he swipes at the counter with a wet rag.

An infamous tattoo spans the back of his neck as a warning to anyone who isn’t aware of his identity—a hawk in midflight, the symbol of the Syndicate.

His plain, black shirt and pants are less expensive than Vlad’s tailored suits but just as impressive.

It’s a fitting ensemble for a lieutenant of the Volki .

“What is it?” He snaps, glancing over his shoulder. The moment he spots me, his stern frown goes slack. “Ksei…Ksenia?”

“Hello, Ivan.” My throat goes dry, and I have to swallow hard to moisten it. “You also told me I could always trust you.” I display my hands to show I’m unarmed. “I hope I still can. I-I need your help.”

He sighs, my old friend. The past years have taken a toll on him. Most of his dark hair is streaked with gray. He’s grown his beard out, but his blue eyes have retained that same disarming gleam.

“My help? Does it have anything to do with this?” He reaches behind him and snatches something from the counter.

Shit. My heart sinks as I recognize the shape even though it’s been burned, the outer casing singed and melted—a ruined service weapon typical of a police officer.

“Did you think I didn’t know you were in town?

” Ivan asks before holding the remains of my gun out to me.

“Though after last night, I was sure you were dead. I had my men scour the ruins of the club for any trace of you. I was just about to call in a favor to have you scrubbed from the database.” He sizes me up with a sweep of his eyes, and with every inch, they narrow.

“You did a very, very stupid thing. I didn’t even know you’d let yourself get transferred to this shithole until last night.

After everything I’ve done for you—” He forms a fist and slams it against the countertop. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Rather than defend myself, I take the gun. My nostrils wrinkle with the acrid stench of smoke, but I’ll write off the feeling twisting through my stomach as relief anyway. This is one less mess Grey will have to explain on my behalf.

I don’t dare ask Ivan how he managed to infiltrate what was sure to be a hive of police activity by now. Ivan Ivanov knows everything .

“So, who did it?” I croak once I’ve gathered up the nerve. “Who attacked the club?”

I steel myself for the answer. Another gang? The police would never be so reckless.