Page 8 of Inferno

I roll my eyes.

“Give me the number. I’ll wire it across personally once we’re home.”

Everyone has a price.

“You think money can fix this?” he scoffs.

A casual shrug is my only response.

“That’s all you lot are after, ain’t it? More money so you can sniff it up your nose and forget all your posh boy problems, ay?”

He lets out a deep chuckle, pulling out his packet of cigarettes.

“You better hope James pulls through,” he tells me, the threat evident in his tone.

I keep my facial expression neutral. It does not look promising.

I’d guess brain damage. I’m sure our doc, Finn, can give us a better idea. But he’s right. Their father, Charles, will declare a war for this.

I told my father this was a stupid idea, that Conan wasn’t mentally ready to be let loose in the ring yet.

He didn’t listen, and look where that got us.

Chapter 2

CHARLOTTE

The rhythmic thud of my fists against the heavy bag fills the air as I unleash punches. My arms burn until spots dance before my eyes.

This is my escape.

The violence flows through my veins. I let out a scream as I swing back my leg and propel it onto the leather.

Every punch. Every kick. I release some of the pain inside me.

Today more than most. The five-year anniversary of my mom’s death.

The day I watched the life drain from her.

The last day I was ever Charlotte.

Now, I am Vlad’s property. His spy. His assassin.

The first month I was here, I was locked away in a basement. Just after our ‘wedding’, Drago found me. That moment marked the change in my role here. That is how I became an important player in Vlad’s operation. Drago saw my skill and he forged a deal to let me use it.

But I had to stay a secret from the outside world. Even Tatiana. The woman who rules this family has no idea I exist.

Today also marks one thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-five days of plotting his demise.

I’ve learned a lot, I’ve listened and crept through the house looking for my perfect escape plan.

Nothing has fit into place that wouldn’t risk my father’s life.

That’s even if he is still living. I draw in a deep breath. He is alive, Drago told me so. I trust him.

Mocking slow clap cuts through the silence as I press my head against the bag, gasping for air. The fabric smells faintly of sweat and dust.

Relief washes over me as Drago’s deep Russian accent fills the gym.

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