Page 368 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

“Fine,” I huff. My stomach growls and I rub a hand over it. It’s officially rebelling against me. I guess some ice cream would be good after all. “You need me to come with?” I ask with a loud yawn once the truck comes to a stop. “I’m fresh off a killing spree, so I’m still a little jacked up.”

He snickers. “Thanks, but I’ve got it. I don’t need my baby sister backing me up.”

I sigh, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I never offered.” I’d do anything for my brother and he knows it. He and my uncle are all I have left.

He opens the door and hops out of the truck, leaving me with my thoughts.

Most of the time, I can deal with our shitty circumstances. I mean, we’re still alive, so that’s a big bonus. A few years ago, I didn’t think we’d survive for this long. But thankfully, our Uncle Boris had taken us in after we fled from our home. He brought us here to the States and gave Maks a job working on his crew.

I was too young and inexperienced, though, so he trained me. Turned me into his own personal weapon. Years later, I’m more lethal than my brother.

Uncle Boris never misses an opportunity to warn us that word travels fast, and the same people who killed Mama and Papa are still hunting for us. So most of the time, I keep my head down, flying under the radar and doing my work for that asshole bratva boss Volkov, hoping that one day, I can finally look up and see the light at the end of this dismal and dark tunnel.

Maks has promised me that we’ll be able to write our own ticket wherever we want to go after a few more ‘jobs’.

I’ve heard that before.

Papa used to make that same promise to Mama.

Unfortunately for both of them, he never got a chance to make good on it.

Crack! Pop! Bang!

I sit straight up with a gasp, the exploding sounds blasting through the music.

Holy shit! Did he seriously just shoot someone?

Did he kill someone?

A scream bubbles up from my lungs, but I bite down hard on my lower lip to prevent it from piercing the still air.

Oh my God, Maks!

Two more shots are fired and I strain my ears to hear voices.

They’re yelling something in a different language…

And it isn’t Russian.

My throat tightens, blood rushing between my ears.

Maks…

Police sirens sound in the distance and a car door slams, tires squealing on the pavement outside. The engine fades and my world is plunged back into an eerie stillness, save for the approaching cops.

I try to swallow, but the gaggle of tears in the back of my throat chokes me to the point that I can barely squeeze out a breath.

Maks never calls out to me.

He never opens the back door.

Minutes later…or maybe it’s hours…I reach up, my clammy, shaking hand gripping the door handle and pushing it open. I am greeted by a black sky and a desolate parking lot in the middle of an overgrown tree field near the water. I shakily get to my feet, gingerly stepping onto the pavement as if my legs might give out at any second.

My mouth falls open, but I can’t say the words that hover on the tip of my tongue.

My pulse throbs against my neck, heart galloping like a thoroughbred as I creep around to the back of the truck.

I fall to my knees, crashing hard against the concrete, bits of gravel digging into my hands as I collapse onto my brother’s bullet-torn and lifeless chest.

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