Page 67 of Never Distract a Biker

After about half an hour into the drive, I begin to think of delay tactics. Something I can do to stall so that Viktor and his men can catch up with us. I knock on the dividing hatch, a hollow thump echoing in the cramped space of the van. "Please, I need to use the bathroom," I plead, my voice barely louder than the hum of the engine. Silence greets me at first, and I can almost hear my own heart pounding against my ribcage.

"Stop asking," grunts one of the assailants through the metal barrier, his voice devoid of empathy.

I knock again, harder this time. "I can't hold it anymore," I insist, fake desperation coloring my tone.

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of tires rolling over uneven asphalt. Then, with a suddenness that catches me off guard, the connecting hatch swings open. The one on the passenger seat – broad-shouldered and stone-faced – leans into the back, his eyes glinting coldly.

"Didn't you hear me?" he snarls, and before I can react, his hand shoots out.

I brace myself for a slap or a punch, but instead, he shoves me. Hard. My body tumbles backward, and I land on my bum. The world tilts violently as pain explodes through my lower back. All I can do is lie there, gasping for air, the metallic taste of fear sharp on my tongue.

Cradling my aching back, the brutality of the shove leaves me with no illusions about my captors. Unlike the Makarov Bratva men, who adhered to some twisted code of honor, these are different; they're callous and cruel. A shiver of dread snakes its way down my spine as I realize that not even the tiny swell of my belly, the clear sign of my pregnancy, is enough to stir a shred of compassion in their cold dead hearts.

I lean against the hard metal wall of the van, the vibration from the tires humming beneath me like a relentless beast. The stench of grease and sweat permeates the air, sticking to the inside of my nostrils. I close my eyes, trying to find solace in the darkness behind my lids, but the fear clings to me, a second skin I cannot shed.

Time becomes an elusive specter as the van continues its merciless trek. I'm adrift, lost in a sea of uncertainty, my mind reeling with questions. Are we heading north, towards the icy edges of the country? Or south, where the city's heartbeat fades into rural silence? Every turn, and acceleration, adds to the tangled web of directionless travel. The men converse in low tones, words muffled by the barrier that separates us. Theirlanguage is familiar yet foreign, a reminder of Viktor and the life that seems a universe away now.

I draw my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. It’s a feeble attempt at self-comfort, but it's all I have. My thoughts churn, but I keep my lips sealed, knowing better than to provoke another encounter with the faceless brutes driving me further into this nightmare.

The road stretches on, endless and unforgiving, swallowing miles and the last vestiges of hope I harbor. I am alone with my fear, rolling through the darkness, the unknown destination pulling me deeper into despair. I can only ride out this journey in silence, praying for a miracle I'm no longer sure exists.

31

Viktor

I'm in the back seat of my car, the leather cool and slick against the tailored lines of my suit. The city blurs past the tinted windows, but my focus narrows as Zasha hands me a discrete envelope. It's unassuming, yet it weighs heavy.

"Details of Marina for the past two decades," he says, his voice betraying no emotion.

I nod. My fingers are adept at unsealing the envelope without tearing the paper. The contents spill into my lap: photos, reports, and a dossier on Marina that promises answers. My eyes scan each word, absorbing the information with predatory keenness.

"Interesting,” I murmur under my breath. Marina had also been a stripper in DanceCheck and had used the same stage name as Scarlett. A stage name shared by two women who've entangled themselves in the web of my world. They were friends and roommates during their days at the New York City University. Both are now involved with two different Bratva leaders. The coincidence is too precise to ignore. It is either they are both in on something, or there is a good excuse for why their lives are treading the same path. According to the report, Marina is the daughter of my father’s mistress, but their relationship is very strained, almost non-existent.

Anger rips through me, sharp and cold as ice. Has Scarlett been fooling me with all that sweetness? My temples pound with the rush of blood and suspicion. What game is being played here? Are they both under Sidorov’s payroll or is this some twisted fate shit?

"Pakhan?"Zasha probes, watching me closely. “What’s the next line of action?” He asks having read the look on my face.

"Drive faster," I command the driver, my pulse accelerating. "We have a truth to uncover."

The city streaks by in a haze, but my mind is elsewhere. Inside me, a storm rages—a tempest of emotions I can't quell. Scarlett. Her image flashes before my eyes, sweet yet feisty, the person holding the final piece to this puzzle.

"Electra," the name burns on my tongue like acid. It's a link, a clue that could tie Scarlett to Marina, and the betrayal coils inmy gut like a serpent. I've brought her into my life, my home, let her close enough to strike at the heart of my empire. The thought is abhorrence, repugnant.

I grapple with the chaos swirling inside me as anger contends with the betrayal. But it's the uncertainty about Scarlett that claws at my soul. A part of me believes she could be innocent, a victim of coincidence. But what if she isn’t? She could then be the key to unraveling everything I've built. Every instinct in me screams to trust no one, yet the memory of her touch, defiant gaze, and pure laugh makes me doubt.

I’ll give her the benefit of explaining herself.

My fingers clench into fists, knuckles white as bone. The drive home is tense; every red light is a test of patience I do not possess. My thoughts are a tangled mess, doubts and suspicions wrestling for control. But above all, retribution.

Scarlett's laughter echoes in my head, a haunting melody that once soothed the beast within. Now, it's a siren song, luring me toward potential ruin. The possibility that she's connected to Marina, maybe even working against me, scrapes against my insides.

"Boss?" Zasha's voice cuts through my reverie, cautious, probing. “Give her room to explain herself.”

"Silence." The command is sharp, brooking no argument.

When we arrive, I'm out of the car before it fully stops, striding toward the mansion with purpose. The need for answers consumes me, a hunger that demands satisfaction. I need to confront Scarlett, look into those steel-grey eyes, and find the truth lurking behind them.

But I stop dead in my tracks as I realize a foreign emotion. Fear. An emotion I long thought dead and often despised in others. I have not experienced fear since I recovered from the failed assassination that claimed my mother. Why did it suddenly surface?

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