Page 10 of Obsessed Bratva King

“Perfect.”

He responds with his usual brisk efficiency. “I’ll contact the boutique and see what they can arrange.”

Before I can reply further, his tone shifts slightly. “By the way, sir, Maxim’s been calling repeatedly down here to speak with you. I know you said you were not to be disturbed but he says it’s urgent. Says you’re not picking up your cell. Should I pass on a message?”

“Thank you, Marcus,” I say. “I’ll handle Maxim.” I hang up the phone and move toward the balcony, the heavy door creaking softly as I step out into the cool night. The city sprawls out beneath me—all twinkling lights and insignificant people. The only person who matters is in my bathroom.

Leaning on the stone balustrade, I take a deep breath and pull my phone from my pocket. I know I can’t ignore Maxim’s calls forever. I switch it on again and dial his number.

After two rings, he answers. “Thought you might be dead,” he says down the line. “Who’s the woman?”

“Marcus told you, I see.”

“Answer the question.”

“She had the bag.”

“The job was to get the bag. Not the courier.”

“He killed Vlad, then took it back to his place. I went after it and found her running with it.”

“So you thought you’d keep her, like a pet?”

“She could be useful.”

“How?”

“She knows Darren. I’m going to question her. See what I can find out.”

“Where’s the bag now?”

“Here, but it’s empty.”

“Shit. You sure?”

“Twenty in cash and nothing else inside. Darren killed Vlad and set me a trap. His men killed Tony and Igor.”

“Peter?”

“Ran off somewhere. Fuck knows where he is. But listen, no one gets that defensive about twenty thousand. I’m missing something, I just can’t work out what.”

“Guess Lombardi’s empire isn’t as dead as we thought.”He grunts. “Come back to New York. Bring the bag, lose the girl. We need to regroup.”

“Got a few loose ends to tie up first.”

“Don’t take too long.”

I hang up.

She’s still a question mark.

She could be working with Darren. She knows my name. Knows about the bag. Knows too much.

But she’s also hurt. Alone. Running.

And for some goddamn reason, I want to help.

I find her sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a dressing gown, damp hair clinging to her shoulders. In front of her, two hotel lackeys are laying out trays of food.

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