Page 6 of Savage Bratva King

No point going in soft with the new asset; she needs to know that we mean business, or she’ll get too comfortable, and we’ll have nothing left to barter with.

Tamara inclines her head. “As you wish.”

She is under no illusions that I wish her sister to be welcoming when our new guest arrives. They shared a womb. They know each other’s thoughts without speaking the words out loud. She might not like the way her sister operates, but she understands that they are both simply doing what needs to be done to survive.

Her glass is empty, but she doesn’t move.

“What is it?”

“Your father has requested that you dine with him tonight.”

“Has he now?” I sit back in my seat and signal the bartender to fix me another drink.

“Are you not going?” Tamara blinks her pretty green eyes at me.

As if I could ever refuse? She said it herself; my father requests my presence at his home tonight. Attendance isn’t optional.

The bartender places our drinks in front of us and removes the empty glasses.

When he is out of earshot, I face Tamara. “I’m going. Perhaps dinner with my parents is exactly what I need before I greet the new asset personally.”

I do not have to run my business decisions by my father before I carry them out, but he still has his finger on the pulse of every mafia family in the city. He will know the losses we have incurred at the hands of Xander Amory, and he will expect me to retaliate … with interest. This evening’s meal will not be a warning for me to back off but rather a reminder that I need to marry and produce an heir.

“And you’re coming with me.” I clink my glass against hers and down it in one.

3

GIANNA

Dim lights.Walls a nondescript color that might once have been white. Dark blackout curtains.

I push myself into a sitting position, my breathing growing shallow as my head reels, and bile rises in my throat. “Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick,” I whisper to myself, but it’s a close call. My head is pounding, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and my throat clicks when I swallow. I feel like I polished off an entire bottle of Tequila on my own, which Mika would never have allowed.

Then I remember…

I left Mika and Cartier behind in Montenegro.

It starts coming back to me in frantic flashes of light. The aircraft. Andy. Silly card games and little cans of gin and tonic. It was lighthearted, fun, a way of passing the time until it wasn’t. It all turned dark when I tried to stand up and leave my seat.

An image of Andy’s cheeky grin and geeky awkwardness pops into my head, and I lean over the side of the bed and retch. Nothing comes out, but my head feels like it’s going to explode.

He fucking drugged me.

The suitcase splitting open, his girlfriend telling him to strap it together, the Swedish fish candy… It was all just a smokescreen, and I fell for the oldest trick in the book.

I force myself back into a sitting position and drag my legs over the side of the bed, slowly, supporting my head with one hand as if that will stop it from toppling off my shoulders and rolling away. I survey my surroundings. It’s a small room. I’m on a single bed that isn’t completely uncomfortable, but there are no other furnishings. A basement maybe?

I have no idea if I’m in Chicago or another part of the country, but I need to get out of here before whoever abducted me comes back. Because if they don’t kill me—which is extremely feasible given my family name—my father will for insisting that I travel alone.

“Stupid,” I mutter to myself, my voice hoarse. “Stupid. Stupid.Stupid.”

Gripping the side of the bed, I force myself to stand up. My legs feel like Jell-o, and the room rocks as if I’m still on the aircraft, but I stand there, swaying unsteadily and wait for the motion in my head and stomach to subside.

There’s a door. I make my way slowly across the room and wait there, straining my ears for any sounds outside the room. But all I can hear is the blood gushing through my veins, and the dull thud-thud-thud of my heartbeat. Holding my breath, I reach for the knob and turn it, panic clawing its way around my insides when I realize that the door is locked.

“Help!” Survival instinct kicks in, and I rest my cheek against the solid door, praying that someone might be walking past and hear me. “Let me out!”

When no one comes, I start pounding on the door with my fists, yelling until my voice cracks and almost disappears.

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