Page 7 of Obsessed Bratva King

He gets to his feet, muttering something in Russian. I’m guessing a curse.

I hesitate. “You’re not taking it?”

“I don’t need money.” His tone is casual. Rich-guy casual. “I need answers.” His gaze flicks to the bag again, considering. “What were you gonna do with it?”

I shrug. “Always dreamed of opening a restaurant. My parents ran a bakery but they always wanted a restaurant of their own some day.”

“Going to give it to them? That’s noble.”

“They’re dead.”

“How?”

“Mob burned the bakery when they wouldn’t pay protection. They were inside. I was at school. I came back and…” My voice fails.

He examines me closely, like he’s checking whether I’m telling the truth. He nods. “Twenty thousand is nowhere near enough for a restaurant. Want my advice?”

“Not really.”

“Use it to start over someplace new.”

I snort. “And you care because…?”

He leans in just slightly, those icy eyes locking onto mine. “Because if you stay in Chicago, you’ll be dead in a week. He’ll find you soon enough. You’re not very good at hiding.”

“Been on the streets since I was twelve. Never got picked up by the cops once in that time.”

He considers for a moment. “What’s your name?”

“Cora Jackson.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one. Why?”

“Because you tried to fight me and I’m nearly twice your age. You’ve got some balls on you, Cora Jackson. You ready?”

I shake my head, taking a step back. “For what?”

His smirk returns as he picks up his gun. “You’re coming with me.”

3

IVAN

She steps into my hotel room with that same sharp wariness she’s had since the moment I found her. Like a stray cat deciding whether or not to scratch my eyes out.

She’s spent too long in the cold. Too long learning not to trust. Nine years homeless and alone.

She’s a survivor though. Sharp claws help you survive.

She looks round the suite. I can tell what she’s thinking. Far too elegant for a man like me. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline. Everything is sleek, expensive, perfectly curated.

It doesn’t fit the blood drying under my nails. The fight still thrumming in my veins.

Her gaze flicks across the room. The vodka. The pressed suit hanging near the bed. The polished Beretta I set down on the table.

She’s piecing it together. I can see it in the flicker of her eyes, the way her lips press tight.

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