Page 48 of Obsessed Bratva King

My stomach plummets as smoke billows around me. How did I get into the bakery? I see Mom and Dad through the thick plumes of acrid gray. They’re calling me but I can’t get to them.

Something is wrong.

My gut screams at me—RUN. Ivan grabs my hand. “The baby,” I scream. “Where is she?”

“With you,” he replies. “Now wake up.”

I wake with a gasp, my breath sharp and uneven as my body jolts upright.

A sharp, aching sense of wrongness settles deep in my bones, making my fingers tighten around the sheets. The penthouse issilent. My ears strain against the quiet, searching for the familiar sounds of Ivan moving through the space.

Night has fallen outside. I must have been asleep for hours.

A cold, sick feeling unfurls in my gut. Where is he?

My phone buzzes.

The sound shatters the stillness, startling me. My pulse slams against my throat as I fumble for it on the nightstand, my fingers shaky, the glow of the screen casting eerie shadows across the room.

A message from Ivan.

Come to me. Quickly. The penthouse has been compromised. A cab is waiting for you outside.

The words punch the air from my lungs.

Compromised.

I don’t stop to think. I don’t hesitate.

I shove back the covers, my body moving on autopilot, my mind still trying to catch up. Clothes. Shoes. Jacket. Out.

I reach the elevator and slam the button, my heart hammering in my chest. The doors open with a soft chime, and I step inside, pressing against the wall as the descent begins.

The feeling doesn’t leave me.

That gnawing, creeping sense of dread.

By the time I reach the street, a yellow car is already waiting at the curb. It sits there, silent and waiting, the glow of the streetlamp glinting off its sleek exterior.

My legs feel unsteady as I approach. The driver looks my way. “Cora?” A Russian accent.

“Yeah.”

“Ivan sent me. Get in. Make it quick.”

I climb into the back seat, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that makes my stomach clench. “Where are we going?” I ask as we pull away from the curb.

“Somewhere safe. Don’t worry. Ivan’s waiting for you. He’s hurt but he’ll be all right.”

I force myself to breathe. In. Out.

“Hurt? What happened?”

“He said he’ll tell you himself. Take it easy. Won’t be long.”

The car rolls to a stop. The driver nods toward a hulking warehouse to the right.

"He’s in there," he says. “Door’s open.”

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