Keep him awake, I think. “They were trying to kill you. Why did they want to kill you?”
“People always want to kill me.”
“No. These were hitters. Organized crime guys.”
A car comes from the other way. Light on his face.
“Fuck!” Our headlights aren’t even on. They should be on in this gloomy weather. “Stay on this side of the line. God!” I squeeze my eyes shut and duck as the car passes, horn blaring. “Let me drive.”
“No.”
“Slow down at least.”
He squints. Woozy. Don’t pass out.
“They called you Kiro. Is that your name? You seem like a Kiro.”
He’s weaving.
“Stay awake, dammit!” I poke him. “There has to be a reason they want to kill you. Right?”
“I’m different,” he growls like it’s so obvious.
“You’re not that different,” I say. “You won’t let the woman drive even when it’s the best choice.”
He looks at me strangely, then swerves. “Pull over!” I scream.
My scream seems to have gotten him alert again. But for how long?
“Where are we going?”
He looks up at the sky. “This way.”
What’s in the sky? Then I realize he’s navigating by the sky. Back to the forest. Back home. And…taking me with him?
“You’re in no shape to drive. Let me drive.”
“You’ll run.”
“I won’t. I promise I won’t. Kiro—”
He thinks I’ll run. Why not? Everyone has probably always either run from him or tried to hurt him. Kill him. Drug him. Imprison him. He starts looking groggy again. He swerves.
I grab his arm, screaming. “Slow the fuck down!” He doesn’t slow down. I shake him. I start to cry. He’s losing blood. He trusts nobody. He’s going to crash. “Kiro!” I sob, deeply, deeply frightened now.
“Stop crying, Nurse Ann. Stop. Please.”
He really hates my crying. It gets through to him more than my screams. Yeah, I’m not above turning it on a bit. “You’re scaring me!” I sob.
“Stop it!”
I keep it going, begging him to rest his eyes a bit, telling him how scared I feel. “You want to go north? I’ll take you north. Please!”
He grits his teeth.
“Look at me!”
He turns and regards me with a pained expression. “We’re on the same side. You saved me. Pull over. We help each other.”
“You’ll…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
I put a hand on his arm.
“Slow,” I say. “Slow.”
The speedometer ticks down. He slows. Or maybe he’s just losing strength.
“Good.”
He sways forward. Losing consciousness. The truck heads for the shoulder.
I grab the wheel. Still slowing. I crawl over him, sitting partly on his lap. I kick around, trying to find the brake, jamming it on as I navigate to the shoulder.
I heave out a breath once it’s finally in park, sitting there on this unconscious feral man’s lap. Then he wraps his arms around me, whispering something that sounds like “mine.”
I push and coax him over into the passenger seat. Luckily, he cooperates, climbing over. I rip off his shirt. Still bleeding. I use my phone light to inspect the wound. I rip strips of his shirt and bandage the wound as best as I can. It’s a gash in his shoulder. Not so bad. His pulse seems okay. I think the drugs are pulling him back under, like he used all the adrenaline he had. I put my hand on his neck, his cheek. “Kiro,” I say.
He mumbles.
I get behind the wheel, jerk the thing into drive, and pull out, hands shaking. What am I doing? I should run. Save myself. But then I look over at him, slumped in the seat, and I feel this surge of crazy affection.
He just wants to go home. He wants to get back to the woods. And then there’s the matter of his story. Who is he? Why are they trying to kill him?
“Kiro!”
No response.
I shove at his arm. He’s out cold. I reach over in the dark and take his wrist. His pulse feels strong. It’s no wonder he’s out. What with the drugs and two fights to the death.
I try not to think of that.
I drive at exactly the speed limit and quietly pull out my phone and text my editor, Murray. I send him the photos I got of the men who attacked Fancher Institute. A few minutes later I make the call.
“Ann!” That’s the sum total of Murray’s breathless answer. “Ann Ann Ann! The Fancher attack is just now hitting the wire. Talk. Go.”
I give him the story down and dirty, pyramid style. His pleasure knows no bounds when I inform him the attack was connected to 34—that what appeared to be professional criminals were specifically hunting for Patient 34.
“Fuck yes. Thank you, Jesus,” he says. “Savage Adonis, hunted by Albanian mafia.”
“Excuse me?”
“The lion tattoo in one of the images you got. One of your nylon-stocking guys? Have you looked at these pictures?”
“I was busy staying alive, dude.”
“Research just identified it as Albanian mob. What did 34 say about the attack?”
“He doesn’t seem to know who they are. But they definitely knew him.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t know? You sure he wasn’t shitting you?”
I touch his hair. “He wasn’t shitting me.” I don’t know much about 34—Kiro—but he’s not a bullshitter. He really didn’t seem to know them.
I’m different. They all see it.
I don’t tell Murray that part. Is it possible he truly thinks they want to kill him just because he’s some sort of abomination? It breaks my heart a little that he would think it, but he’s never had a reason to trust anyone. Of course he’d think it.
“It could be a blood feud, I don’t know,” Murray says. “I mean, maybe. The Albanian mob definitely gets into that shit. Did you know when one family member is killed, vengeance extends to all the male members of the of the killer’s family? Those fucking Albanian mobsters are psychos.”
“Wait, send a team into a high-security psych ward just to carry out a blood feud?” I say. “Risking a dozen guys like that? Even a psychotic organization doesn’t do that. No. There’s something else going on. It’s all connected. Savage Adonis. This hit. There’re more pieces out there. Something bigger’s going on.”
“What’s going on is this story just got twice as dangerous. Sure you don’t want me to send Garrick?” He really wants to send slimy Garrick.
“I got this.”
“Okay. Dump that vehicle. I’ll send a rental car.”
I give him my location; we talk plans. He gives me an update on the Fancher attack from the wire. Rumors of escaped prisoners. Some staff unaccounted for. “They don’t know a lot at this point in time,” he says.
I smile. Not knowing a lot at this point in time means you don’t know shit. Or that you’re not being allowed to report it.
“I’ll call in. I’ll say I got freaked out and escaped when Kiro did,” I tell him. People do that during shootings—just run for the hills. “In the meantime, I need to get us somewhere. I need medical supplies. Kiro needs medical attention. I’ve got ID, but…”
“Don’t use it.” He tells me there’s a Holiday Superstore ten miles up where I can get basic medical supplies. He gives me directions to a small motel well beyond that—he’ll get a room under his own name. “Don’t bother giving your ID or license plate. They’ll take mine.”
Of course they will. Leave it to a muckraking rag to know these things are even options for purchase.
“Stay safe. I’m having cash and ID couriered up there. They’ll knock and tell you it’s a package from Stormline.”
“Got it.”
“How long is his hair?” Murray asks.
“What?”
“How long?”
“It’s long. I’m going to need to clean him up.”
“Don’t cut it.”
>
“What?”
“Look, I’ve got a courier heading out there with ten thousand dollars. You know why? Because I’m buying a story on Savage Adonis. When I buy a story on Savage Adonis, I want Savage Adonis, not a frat boy.”
I run my fingers through his hair. “All he wants to do is to go north. I think he wants to go home.”
“And you’re going with him. You’ll help him. You’ll take photos along the way.”
“The Albanian mafia…” I whisper, half to him, half to myself.
“Your boy dealt them a serious setback. Just stay off the grid and you’ll be fine.”
Riiiight, I say under my breath.
He continues. “Savage Adonis wants to head into the woods? Good. That’s the safest place you can be. If anybody can get lost in the woods, it’s him. Tell me you have a charger for that phone of yours.”
“I’ll grab a charger pack.”
“Good girl. Stay with him. Don’t stop taking pictures.”
Chapter Fifteen
Aleksio
I stroll into Agronika with my brother Viktor and Tito and Yuri and a few of our guys. We move through the front dining room, all dark wood paneling and candlelight illuminating the heavy red curtains and tapestries all over the walls.
There’s a hush all across the place.
Yeah, we’re the Dragusha brothers walking through Agronika, famous for roasted lamb, stuffed peppers, and being the stronghold of our greatest enemy, Bloody Lazarus Morina.
People bolt up from feast-laden tables and walk out—quickly and quietly. Some even as they’re still chewing.
I catch Viktor’s eye. He’s determined. Ready to get bloody. His black suit has a bit of a shine to it, as though even his suit is ready to get bloody.
The images on the tapestries that cover the walls are nothing but a lot of strange animals and soldiers on horseback, unless you give a shit about Albanian history. Then you know it’s the traditional tales. Love and war, tragedy and redemption. Fantastically powerful families like mythical beasts woven all through. The lions are the Dragushas more often than not.
The Dragushas are an old family.
Viktor and I know the stories and the customs and all of that. We know who we are. Our enemies tried to prevent exactly that—they sent Viktor to an orphanage in Moscow, sent Kiro to be adopted, and hunted me. Put a price on my head.
But Dragushas are tough.
My old mentor, the man who saved me that bloody day in the nursery when they took my family, instilled appreciation for the Albanian customs in me. The honor of the Black Lion clan, the criminal empire we will be taking back for our own. And I taught Viktor once I found him.
“Showtime,” my guy Tito mumbles, adjusting his cuffs as we approach the end of the civilian dining area. Or maybe he’s touching the slim hilt of the blade he has under there. He likes to do that before a fight the way some people like to touch the hull of a plane before they climb on board.
Around the corner the light will grow dimmer, and the thieves will be thicker. Lazarus’s thieves. Lazarus’s hitters, all his made guys.
But we happen to know Lazarus is injured, laid up somewhere in a private facility with a lot of his guys protecting him.
We got word of his attack on some institute up north just an hour ago—the Fancher Institute. He fucking went after Kiro—we’re sure of it. We knew Kiro was in the system but not where in the system. How did Lazarus find Kiro first?
The important thing, though, is that he didn’t get him. We’ve got a cop inside who described the scene, did some interviews, sent images. A lot of casualties, but none of them are Kiro. And if Kiro was dead, word would be out. Lazarus would see to it.
It’s bad, but not like it would be if Kiro was dead.
We’re heading up there. This is a pit stop. We’re here to mess up some guys and take some others for intel. We need to know what Lazarus knows.
We turn the corner, and there they are—a handful of tough guys from Lazarus’s crew drinking grappa and smoking cigarettes. Health laws don’t apply at Agronika.
They start shooting, but not fast enough. We gun down a few. Take the rest to shake down.
Chapter Sixteen
Ann
Murray has gotten us a room at the very end of a 1970s-era motorist motel, a small, low building with alternating doors and windows. I sit in the truck staring at Kiro, who’s utterly out. I look back and forth between him and the door of our room.
And sigh.
I like to think of myself as a capable woman. I definitely was before the kitten incident, but carrying a 200-pound unconscious man even ten feet isn’t—has never been—in my wheelhouse.
I shake Kiro.
I think of him as Kiro now. It’s a strong, fabulous, awesome, totally unique name, which suits him perfectly.
I shouldn’t be getting attached to him like this. I really shouldn’t.
I pat his cheeks. Nothing. I don’t like that he’s so deeply out. I grab the bag from the Holiday store and drink one of the waters while I think.
I get out and go into the room and look at what I’ve got to work with. Luck comes in the form of a chair with wheels. Can I get him into that?
As it turns out, yes—with his help. I pinch his cheek, and he wakes up enough for me to get him into the chair.
Ten minutes later he’s out cold on the bed, and I’m a frazzled, exhausted mess, running on fumes and no rest. It’s entirely possible I’m not making the greatest choices.
Kiro deserves somebody better to protect him. Somebody better than me.
But I’m what he has.
One foot in front of the other, I think. Just concentrate on that next step, which in this case is handling the vehicle. The Albanian mob is out there, probably with a network of cops on the lookout for the vehicle Kiro stole—probably one of theirs.
The SUV has to go.
I go out and take the license plates off of it and drive it to a vacant lot behind a shed in back of a 7-Eleven store a half mile down the street.
Then I jog back to the room, thankful to find him sprawled out on the bed. I didn’t think he had it in him to run, but you never know with Kiro.
I stand there for a moment in awe of how kinetic and wild he feels, even in sleep. It’s amazing to me that he even fits inside the four corners of a bed. He blows me away. I want to fight for his wildness. I want to fight for him.
I nab my phone, get a quick photo, and tuck it away.
I shred his shirt with the scissors I picked up, baring his massive chest—dirty, bloody, sweaty. It’s the wound I’m worried about. I remove the makeshift bandage I created and start cleaning it with the rubbing alcohol from the Holiday.
Kiro was stabbed with something in the shoulder. It’s not as bad as I thought. Back in my field nursing days, I worked on a lot of wounds like this. Assisted with a lot worse.
Not infected. He’ll be okay, though he won’t be enjoying jumping jacks anytime soon. How did he even carry me?
He’s shaking, but I think that’s him detoxing. He’s coming off of a lot of heavy psychotropic drugs.
The bite of rubbing alcohol rouses him. I pull away, wary, but he just moves his arms as if to make sure he’s free.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m here to help you.”
He squints at me.
“You probably feel how I look,” I say. “Or is it the other way around?” It feels good to talk to him the way I used to. Like something regular in this insane situation. Not that the previous situation was all that sane.
He swallows. Eying me. I wonder how fucked up he feels.
I grab a fresh cloth and approach him slowly, gently. “Didn’t I tell you I’d stay?”
He’s forming a word. “Where…”
I kneel to be level with his golden eyes, feeling this surge of fondness for him. I can’t help it.
Stay objective.
“You’re safe. Hiding. You’re safe with me.” I offer him water, and he drinks greedil
y, massive throat undulating.
I shake out three aspirins for him. He bats them away.
“I’m not trying to drug you, okay? You were shot.” Does he even understand me?
“I’m going to sew this thing up. Are you with me?” He opens his eyes again. I touch his cheek, stroking gently to show I’m not a threat. He closes his eyes, seeming to enjoy my touch.
Stay objective, I say, even as I fall into his beauty, this trembling, fucked-up, feral lost boy who’s eight, nine, maybe even ten years younger than I am. I stroke his cheek again, and he seems to relax more deeply. And I wish I didn’t have to stitch him and hurt him. I wish I had all the money in the world to help him and get him free without having to write a story about him in exchange. But this deal with the publicity devil is part of how he keeps safe. He doesn’t know it, but I do.
Murray will want this story ASAP—Savage Adonis in all his hot savagery. Kiro deserves better than that. He deserves a beautiful, thoughtful piece.
Kiro has been treated as something less than human by the system and the media, but when I look at him, I see a man who is achingly, intensely human.
He’s scary and violent, yes. But what choice did he have? Hit men were after him. He didn’t kill the people when I told him not to. Hell, he didn’t kill Donny during his first few escape attempts—that shows real restraint, if not downright sainthood.
And he did carry me off in spite of my asking him to put me down, but it felt…protective. Which would go along with what I know about him. Kiro gave up his chance to escape from a living hell to help me when Donny attacked, after all. That shows a lot. It shows that Kiro’s force of will and sense of right and wrong didn’t crumble even in the most degrading, demoralizing circumstances.
So that’s where I’m heading with my fucking piece.
Murray can fuck himself if he doesn’t like it.
I don’t know what happens once I get Kiro to his home. Does Murray imagine sending camera crews at that point? I can make sure Kiro can’t be found by Murray, but what about these hit men?
I can’t fight for Kiro if I don’t know the full story.
I look down at Kiro. It might be best to get away from him before the sedatives work themselves out of his bloodstream—I know that for a fact. But all I want to do is to curl myself around him and hold him.
Savage Mafia Prince: a Dangerous Royals romance Page 10