Page 39 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

“You hear that, Albert? Your fan base awaits. The one outside the house.”

His ears perk, and he runs up to me, clearly hearing the “go-for-a-walk” tone in my words. Or maybe he just understands. He’s that sort of dog.

I get ready to go. I think I’ll drive myself, so I don’t text Gus. Instead, I think Albert can enjoy some private car time since he likes the front seat.

Isla hasn’t texted me back, so I let her know I’m going to the shelter, and if she’s free, we can meet there, or even after if she’s at the office.

I clip on Albert’s leash and head out, my bag over my shoulder, when a car pulls up.

A man gets out. I guess he must work here since the guards at the gate let him in. He looks at the house and then at me.

“Ilya isn’t here,” I say.

“Are you his wife, Alina?”

“Yes.” Panic suddenly hits, and I drop the lead as Albert starts to bark. “Is he?—”

“He’s fine. I’m Radimir. Melor sent me with a message on behalf of work he’s been doing quietly for the pakhan.”

“As I said?—”

“Melor knows your first husband was murdered,” he says. “He has information, just uncovered, of who really killed your Max.”

My world spins out of control. Were thoughts of Max last night some kind of a premonition?

“You want revenge, yes?”

“Yes…” I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

I don’t…

“Come with me. I will take you to your revenge…”

I know he’s still talking. I can hear him. But blood’s pounding, roaring in my ears. I’m in freefall, and the world’s gone mad.

Go with him? I can’t. It’s foolish.

Information.

About who killed Max.

I can’t move, even as his hand comes up and grabs my arm.

“You look like you’re going to faint. Sit. Here… Come…”

I stumble, everything numb, and loud, frantic barking comes from somewhere. The world shifts in and out of focus.

One minute, I’m standing outside the door, and the next, the man is helping me—pushing me—into the car.

Information. It can’t be right. Can it? Demyan found out who was behind it. But who is behind it and who pulled the trigger could be different.

Wouldn’t this be like Ilya to find the person, to help me get that closure?

The world keeps moving, and blackness encroaches. I force myself to breathe.

Why wouldn’t he have told me?

Or maybe he asked Melor, and Melor found out, but since Ilya isn’t home, this man is taking me to him.

That must be it.

But I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t know him.

I turn, but the door slams. A click sounds.

I make myself breathe slower, deeper, calming myself.

My head still spins, but like a top, it slowly begins to wobble and then comes to a standstill.

And in that silence, doubt creeps in.

Where’s Albert?

I don’t realize I’ve spoken until the man in the front seat, Radimir, grunts. “Back at the house. Too noisy.”

“Stop the car. I need to get out.” A knell of dread rolls through me. “I can’t?— ”

“We’re nearly there. Someone inside will explain, take you to Melor and Ilya and then to the killer, if you wish.”

My phone. I go to grab my bag, but it’s gone. “I need my phone.”

“It’s safe. You don’t need it,” he says to me in Russian.

We’re in a district I don’t know, full of buildings that look empty, utilitarian, like warehouses.

Unease spreads through me.

He pulls up outside one of the squat buildings. I look around, but I don’t see any cars.

“They’re in here.”

This isn’t right. It isn’t. My brain comes back online.

If Ilya had news, he’d come to me. And?—

Shit. I need to think.

“No… I think I should go home. Ilya will work on this for me. And right now, he’s busy with…”

With the Simonov issue. With the Santo issue.

Oh. God.

What if I was wrong?

What if this is Santo’s doing? He knows who works for Ilya and?—

I force myself to calm.

Radimir got into the estate, so Ilya knows where I am. Right? Right ? And if he doesn’t, then?—

Calm down, calm down, calm down.

But I can’t turn off the panic switch, the one that’s attached to dread and fear and the growing feeling that I’ve made a huge mistake.

And Albert… Is he?—

I can’t go there. Albert’s fine, I heard him barking, and this man works for Ilya.

He has to.

Radimir gets out of the car and opens my door. I fumble and he swears, hauling me out and dragging me with him .

Alarms start to ring.

“We cannot be out here too long,” he says. “It is safe enough inside, where your husband waits with news.”

“But—”

He doesn’t stop, just picks up his pace and shoves open a heavy-looking steel door.

We’re in an office, abandoned, dusty, and with an air of long-time disuse.

The alarm bells start to clang louder.

He keeps going, dragging me, his fingers biting into my arm as we go through another door, down a flight of stairs, and into a big, empty basement.

There’s no one else here.

No Melor.

No Ilya.

This is all a ruse, and I’m an idiot.

I make myself go soft and limp as he drags me farther in.

The moment he lets me go, turning, I run, darting past him, heading for the stairs.

He grabs me and hurls me into a wall.

Pain blooms everywhere. He kicks me, and when I crumple to the floor, he presses the heel of his boot against my neck.

“Stay down,” he says in Russian. “Do what I say, and you won’t get hurt.”

He lifts his foot.

I don’t believe him.

I haul myself to my feet again and hold my hands up, trying to appear small.

I look at him, shaking. “Please,” I beg, “don’t hurt me.”

If I play it weak and pathetic, he’ll be caught off guard when I run again. Hide. If I can, I’ll get in that car, drive away, and never look back.

“P-please…” I whimper. “I’ll give you anything… ”

He mutters something horrible about women under his breath in Russian and moves closer, presumably to shove me away from the door. Or to hurt me. Or worse.

I wait.

He takes one more step.

Close enough.

I lunge and grab him, kneeing him in the balls as hard as I can. Then I reach down, grab his junk, and viciously twist.

He grunts and then cries out, stumbling away. I run as fast as I can, but something explodes. A bullet hits brick ahead of me, sending debris flying.

I scream and duck but don’t stop.

But he’s on me. I slam hard into the ground.

Radimir twists a hand in my hair and yanks my head up, the warm muzzle of the gun against my temple. “Bitch.”

Shaking, he drags me up.

Someone else comes down the steps.

“Stupid little bitch,” the man says.

I don’t know him. He’s bigger, older, angrier than Radimir.

He grabs me, hauling me up against him, twisting my arm behind my back. “Time to say good night, cunt.”

He slams a damp cloth over my mouth and nose.

I fight, kicking, trying to get free, trying not to breathe in.

But it doesn’t work.

Everything turns black.