But now’s not the time to revisit that night. I shift my gaze to Petrov.
“Which of your boys fucked her?”
He groans, and I squeeze my forearm.
“Which. One?”
Nothing.
“Tell me or I’ll kill them both.”
No answer. But to be fair, I’m not sure he can speak judging by the blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
I don’t give a fuck about that though.
“Both it is then.” I set my hand on the side of his head and give one hard jerk, the snapping of bone satisfying even if his death is too swift. “That was for Mara, you sick fuck, you sick son of a fucking bitch.”
15
Dante
Petrov’s body hunches to the side, his bulk pulling me along, making me stagger. I draw my arms from around his broken neck. For a moment, his head hangs at an odd angle just before he goes crashing down, the chair tumbling after him.
I breathe, look around. I’m left with four dead bodies in this hole. My shoulder is pouring blood down my arm, seeping through my shirt and coat. I raise my bound hands to touch the area and wince.
Feeling dizzy and too hot, I take an unsteady step toward the counter, pain making my vision go black for moments in time. When I get to the counter, I set the gun down and grip the edge, looking for what I need. I find a small sharp knife and pick it up, turning it to slice through the zip-ties. It takes a full minute to do it but when it’s done, I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face.
“She tasted wonderful. Have you had a taste yet? Something about eating a nice, young, virgin pussy.”
I look over at the dead man as I pull a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and wipe my face then check his pistol for bullets. Two left.
“Tell me have you felt her tight cunt squeeze your dick yet? Or hear her scream when you take her ass?”
I walk toward him, look at his still open but empty eyes. I spit on the side of his face before walking toward the smaller man. I pick up his gun, check the chamber and tuck it, too, into the waistband of my jeans. I take off my bloody coat and switch it out for the one he was wearing. It’s a tight fit but it’ll have to do. I also take his hat and put it on my head. I’m recognizable enough with the patch so I’m hoping this will give me some cover.
Because I’m not finished here yet.
If his sons are upstairs, I’ll have to kill them too.
So, I make my way back up the stairs, gripping Petrov’s gun at my side when I open the door. There’s no one here. I smell cigarette smoke, though, and glance at the door that leads to the alley. It’s cracked open and the smell is coming from that direction. I guess Petrov didn’t let them smoke inside. How conscientious of him.
I walk toward the kitchen, and I can almost hear Matthaeus shouting at me as I push the swinging door open. This isn’t the plan.
“Now my son, he had a special preference for her mouth.”
My blood boils.
It’s noisy in here, lots of staff. I put my hand into my jacket pocket to keep the gun out of sight. The lady at the counter closest to me turns when I enter. She gasps when she sees me grip the edge of her workspace, gaze catching on the bloody print my hand leaves there.
I should get out. Come back with my men. That would be the smart thing to do. But Petrov managed to evade me for five years. I’m not taking a chance on that happening with his offspring. I put a hand to my shoulder, suck a deep breath in and focus on what he said about his son. About what he did to Mara. I look around the kitchen, locate the door a waiter carrying a tray exits from and follow him into the restaurant part of the club. I pause there, grateful it’s dimmer in here.
I’ve never been inside Red’s before, although I’ve seen pictures. It’s huge and lavishly decorated, catering to a high-end crowd. Dress is formal, the wine expensive, the food elegant. I scan the restaurant for either of Petrov’s sons. Viktor and Sacha Petrov. Viktor is first-born. Red’s belongs to him. He looks like a younger version of his father. Sacha, the slightly smarter of the two—or at least the more sober—looks like his mother. And they couldn’t be more different.
If I had to guess which son Petrov was referring to, my money would be on Viktor. But just in case, I’ll take them both out.
Neither are in the dining room though. The tables reserved for the family are set apart from the rest on raised dais. Pretentious pricks.
I cross the dining room toward the club room aware I’m getting looks. Aware I need to hurry this up and get the fuck out of here before Petrov’s soldiers or sons realize I walked out of that cellar.
The music at the club room is the same as that in the restaurant but a little louder. The place darker, more shadowy, the highlights being the various stages upon which beautiful women in various states of dress dance.
The majority of the guests in this room are men but there are women too. I don’t care about any of them, though. Not when I see the room set apart on a mezzanine level. It’s glassed in and two men and one woman are seated at an elegant table as a waiter pours the woman a glass of wine.
It’s Viktor I recognize first. He’s built like his father. He stands from the table, throwing his napkin to the floor as he takes a call. He walks to the window and surveys his club.
I back into the shadows of a sculpture of some Greek goddess, her tits at eye level. I watch Viktor, then see the door to their private room open and several soldiers walk in. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and turns to them.
I take a step toward the stairs that will lead me up to that room, stumbling once as I do, the room spinning. Just then there’s a loud pop. I jerk my head toward the sound, tugging to get the gun out of my pocket. But it’s not a bullet I heard. I see the group of people laughing around the freshly opened bottle of champagne. I push the gun back out of sight.
Breathe. Process the dizziness. Get a fucking handle on my vision fading in and out of black.
I reach my other hand out to steady myself, not sure what I’m reaching for but hear the crashing of crystal as I knock a tray out of the waitress’s hand.
Fuck.
I glance at the stairs I’m heading toward. See the half-dozen men dressed in suits that fit too tightly across their chests rush down. See the effort it takes for them to slow their steps and smile tightly at the guests as they scan the room. I notice one zeroing in on where the sound came from. I crouch down along with the waitress to pretend to help her clean but keep my gaze on them.
I’m so close. I just need to get into their glass cage. I can see them. Both brothers still there. The woman gone now. I don’t know where she went. They’re standing at the glass wall searching the place. I’d shoot now but I know that glass is bulletproof. Petrov is—was—meticulous in protecting himself and his family. He wouldn’t miss that detail.
I get to my feet when the soldier heading toward us is interrupted by another waiter. I turn, weave through a group toward the stairs, my hand still in my pocket, Petrov’s gun cool in my grip when another hand falls heavy on my shoulder.
The injured shoulder.
I wince, grit my teeth to keep from crying out.
“I think you should leave,” a man I don’t know says. “You’re outnumbered. By a lot.” He squeezes my shoulder. “And not exactly up to the task.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, turning to look at the man as I shove his hand from my shoulder. He’s got his head down too, as if he is also trying to stay out of sight.
“There are about a million cameras in here. This was stupid,” he adds as if I give a fuck what he thinks.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask louder this time.
Another man approaches on my other side and they each take an arm. “This way,” he says as they lead me away from the stairs that would take me to the brothers’ perch.
I turn back in time to see another maybe ten soldiers descend those same stairs, several rushing toward the kitchen. We get to a set of double doors wh
ere the first man discreetly hands a folded bill to the one standing sentry. He glances around, pockets the bill, and pushes the door open.
Once we’re outside, an SUV pulls up, the back door opens, and I’m escorted into yet another vehicle. I take my pistol out of my pocket as the car pulls too fast away from Red’s, just as soldiers hurry from the door in the alley they took me in from.
“Again,” I ask, shifting my gaze to the first man, very aware how everything seems to be spinning. How sweat is dripping down my forehead and into my good eye. I meet the stranger’s eyes. “Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?” I cock the pistol and aim to his stomach.
He grins. “I’m the man saving your fucking life. Although I’m not quite sure it’s worth my time.”
The one on the other side of me grips my gun hand, which is already unsteady, and twists it back, relieving me of Petrov’s pistol. We’re driving fast, too fast, and cars honk their horns as we speed through a red light, sending two vehicles crashing into each other while we slip past. It’s like a fucking movie.
The driver laughs, drives a few more blocks before slowing at the command of the first stranger. A moment later, I’m tossed out onto the curb on my ass, the vehicle barely slowing, the pavement unforgiving as I crash down and watch the fuckers drive away.
16
Mara
“He’s alive?”
I hear them through the radio, Matthaeus shouting orders, a car’s tires screeching. The soldier they left behind to babysit me looks up at me, nods once.
Alive!
Goosebumps cover my arms as my heart races.
He’s alive!
I can’t believe it.
But an hour later, I hear them. Hear their boots on the metal stairs outside. I rush to the door when it opens. Matthaeus and another soldier walk in, Dante almost passed out between them, face bruised, one arm soaked in blood, wearing a coat too small and too tight on his shoulders.
“Dante!” I rush toward him, shocked and relieved he’s here. Really alive.
One of the guards intercepts me as Dante manages to lift his head momentarily before they take him to his bedroom and disappear inside. The soldier won’t let me enter so I stand in the hallway and listen. Smiling every time I hear the low rumble of his voice. Happier than I thought I could be to know he survived. Know he didn’t die in that terrible cellar.
“Do you ever stick to the fucking plan?” It’s Matthaeus.
“I’m alive, aren’t I? It’s fine.”
“It’s not fucking fine. And this is going to hurt.”
I think I hear Dante’s groan and I push against the guard to let me in. He doesn’t budge so, after pacing for ten minutes, I drop to a seat on the cold cement floor, my back against the wall to wait.
It’s more than an hour before Matthaeus finally comes out. He looks tired. Exhausted. He’s talking into his phone in Italian. I know it’s Italian and I know I spoke it once, but I don’t speak anymore. I understand what he’s saying though.
I get up to see Dante but again, the soldier stops me.
“I’m going to see him!” I yell into his face.
Matthaeus turns around, looks at me and nods to the soldier who steps out of the way. I push the door open. It creaks on its hinges. Still no doorknob. Dante is lying on top of the bed. He’s shirtless. His boots are off but he’s still wearing the same jeans he’d worn when he’d left. They’re dirty. Filthy with dark stains that I’m pretty sure are blood. I wonder how much of it is his.
I walk toward the bed, see the fresh bandages on his shoulder, the bruises beginning to color the skin of one arm. He’s badly scratched.
I shift my gaze to his face. His patch is still on, the other eye closed. His chest rises and falls with his breaths.
As lightly as I can, I brush hair back from his face. It’s sticking to his forehead. He’s sweating.
I walk into the bathroom and retrieve one of the washcloths stacked on the shelf. After wetting it with cold water from the tap, I return to the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. I also try to rid him of some of the dried blood on his shoulder.
That’s when his arm shoots out, hand like a vise around my wrist.
I gasp and he hisses. I look to his face, see he’s looking at me. I can’t help but think how beautiful he is, even with the scars, the leather patch. Maybe more so for them. There’s a darkness about him. Like an angel fallen. One who broke when he hit the ground.
He shifts his gaze to my wrist then and loosens his grip before finally releasing me.
“Mara,” he croaks. I think he wants to say more but I don’t know if it’s the drugs they gave him but his head rolls back on the pillow so he’s looking at the ceiling again.
“You’re not dead,” I say.
He chuckles, the eye without the patch closing.
I set the washcloth down and glance at the door. It’s closed as much as it can be without a doorknob, and I can see the soldier standing just outside through the hole. Do they think I’ll do something to hurt him?
I don’t care about them, though. I look back down at Dante. His big, broken body. Broad, muscular shoulders and arms, a dusting of dark hair on his chest, scars on olive skin, the ridges of muscle cutting across his stomach. The concentrated dark line of hair that disappears into his jeans.
Something stirs inside me at the sight of him like this. He had stripped to his boxers the night before but like this, he’s somehow more naked. And the sensations I feel looking at him make my heartbeat kick up a notch. It’s a strange and foreign reaction.
I decide to lie down beside him, pulling the blanket up a little although we don’t need it. He’s already hot with fever. I move his unhurt arm, tucking myself into his side. It’s warm enough this way. I lay one arm across his belly and feel his hand come up around me, closing over my waist. I look up at his face but he’s still asleep so I close my eyes, too, and listen to his heart beat. The faint hint of his aftershave is still there beneath the blood, sweat and man smell. It’s that last one that has me shuddering in spite of the heat radiating off him. That and the memory of him earlier. When he had me pressed up against the wall. When he promised he’d come back to me.
And I say a thank you to whoever or whatever it was that protected him. That helped him keep his promise. Because it’s impossible that he’s here. That he walked out of that cellar. That he’s alive at all.
* * *
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until a sound wakes me. I blink once, twice, slow to remember where I am. It’s fully dark now, the streetlamp only offering the faintest light.
“Get her out!” Dante orders and I lean up on my elbow looking down at him. I shift my gaze over my shoulder to the door thinking he’s giving an order. Telling one of his soldiers to remove me. But there’s no one there.
Sweat covers him and he feels hotter than earlier. I touch a hand to his forehead, and it comes away slick.
He blinks rapidly, his agitation obvious. He’s dreaming.
I should get Matthaeus. He’ll know what to do. But Dante is talking again, words I can’t make out. His forehead wrinkles, hands fisting then relaxing again and again as he tries to grab for something but only catches air.
“Wake up,” I try, noticing the gun on the floor on his side of the bed. It’s not his. This one is smaller.
“Get her out. Now!” he snaps, and I try again.
“Dante?” I sit up. “Wake up.”
He mutters a string of curses, switches to Italian, his arm reaching as if for the shoulder holster, the gun he keeps there.
I lean across his body and push the pistol out of reach just in case. It goes sliding across the floor to stop in the middle of the room.
But it’s the wrong thing to do because the next thing I know, he’s got me by my arms, and he flips me onto my back. He’s not gentle. He’s above me, straddling me, one hand closing around my throat.
“Dante!”
He’s strong. To
o strong even as I wrap both of my hands around his forearm and try to pry him off. I can’t speak. Can’t make any sound at all. He’s crushing my windpipe. And when I try to move my legs, to kick, he tenses his thighs, squeezing painfully against the brand. All the while he’s looking at me but it’s like he can’t see me. Like he’s still trapped inside his nightmare.
I twist, slapping one hand against his chest, his face when I can reach it, kicking my legs as much as I am able and as my vision begins to fade along the edges, he finally blinks.
He looks at me for a long minute, gives a shake of his head, loosens his grip around my throat. I cough, rub my throat. In the next instant, he’s lying on top of me, some of his weight on one of his elbows, the arm without the bandage on his shoulder. But much of his body is on me as he looks down, eyebrows furrowed, gaze dark so the green is only a thin circle around his dilated pupil.
It feels good to have him like this. The weight of him crushing me feels strangely safe even as it stokes those feelings of earlier, as if fanning the flames of a building fire inside my center.
He searches my eyes, pushes my hair back from my forehead, touches my cheek. The expression on his face is unreadable. He brings one big hand to the back of my head, cupping it, and it all happens so fast. He leans closer, without a moment’s hesitation, and his mouth closes over mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a devouring. A hungry, starved beast feasting.
My mouth opens for him. I taste him, feel the intensity of him. His muscular, hard body, the weight, the heat of our kiss. His tongue in my mouth, mine meeting it. It’s not just a kiss. It’s more.
It’s everything.
He grinds his hips against mine and I moan at the sensations his hard cock pressing against me through his jeans sends through me. He shoves my sweater up roughly to press himself against me, against my clit. Bare chest against bare chest.
Stolen: Dante’s Vow Page 10