Page 14 of Made Man

I sent them away, but how far did they go? This is the first time in my life that they actually give me space when I ask for it?

“Help!” I scream. “Someone help!”

Alex hoists me off my feet, half dragging, half hauling me down the stairs as I flail and scream. The building behind us thumps with bass.

I never realized how softly I scream. The wheels screeching to a halt in the alley below easily cover the sound. The side door of a white van flies open. Three men in black ski masks pour out with guns drawn.

Semi-automatics.

With silencers.

Fuck.

“Here, boss.” One of the new men passes Alex a weapon, and he immediately presses it to my temple.

“You’re going to be a good girl, right, Mira?” he says. Where did that accent come from? Those cheekbones, a dude named Alex, a blond Nico—they’re with the Russians.

I raise my palms slowly in the air. A heel broke off my sandal on the stairs, so I balance on the ball of one foot like a ballet dancer.

He didn’t put a bullet in my head already, so this is a kidnapping. I have time. I need to think.

Where are my men? They would’ve fallen back, but when they saw me on the move, they would’ve followed. I glance up at the exit door.

Alex chuckles darkly. “They’re not coming, princess. Daddy Dearest needs to stop playing favorites with who he takes on vacation with him. Favoritism hurts feelings. Makes enemies out of friends.” He smirks. He wants me to see that he’s a clever villain, but bribing a weak man isn’t exactly next-level strategy.

Director of Strategic Analytics. What the hell does that mean? Why won’t my brain focus? I’m in trouble here.

Alex is propelling me toward the van. Don’t let them take you to a second location. That’s the first rule, right? My gaze careens from the van to the fire escape to the green dumpster against the brick wall two yards away.

The gun’s muzzle digs into my skin. I am so screwed.

I stumble, whimpering as my ankle twists.

Alex chuckles again and hisses in my ear. “You’re going to make us so much money, princess. While we wait for Daddy to pay up, you’re going to play the market for us like you do for him, and then after he delivers, we’re going to mail your cum-crusted body back to him in pieces.” He brushes a hair off of my forehead with the gun. “But don’t worry—I’ll leave you a few fingers and an eye ’til the very end so you can still make those big trades.”

He bares his wolfish white teeth at me, and it occurs to me what really annoys me about his type. They’re so invested in being the main character, they don’t pay attention to their surroundings.

Like, for example, the exit door at the top of the fire escape creeping open.

I get ready to drop to the ground. Please let it be one of my men. Don’t let it be some busboy ducking out for a smoke. I’ll use whatever distraction I can get, though. I’ll take a bullet in the back over whatever Bratva bullshit Alex has planned any day.

Above us, a hinge creaks.

Five pairs of eyes—and the barrels of four guns—tilt thirty degrees upwards.

Wyatt Foster, in his fucking checkered shirt and fleece vest, steps out onto the metal landing. My jaw drops, followed by my heart. I draw in a breath to scream.

Wyatt sees my face. He sees the man with a gun to my head.

He vaults over the railing of the fire escape.

I blink.

He lands on Alex in a thud of flesh and crack of bones. The impact throws me onto my ass, the concrete skinning my palms. The heelless sandal falls off my foot. I scramble back like a crab.

In a way, I’ve never seen Wyatt like this, but in another way, I have, a long time ago, on the playground in the middle of our cul-de-sac. He moved faster than you’d think a stocky kid could then, and he does now, too.

He dives for the gun that went flying when he tackled Alex into the ground, and as he rises with it, he hooks his arm around my shoulder and pitches me behind him in the direction of the van, pivoting so that he stands between me and the four men leveling their semi-automatics at us.

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