Page 12 of Tattooed Vow

Yeah, right. Nobody chases someone through back alleys just to chat.

I keep climbing, forcing myself onto the rooftop. The city sprawls out before me, a maze of concrete and glass, indifferent to my panic. The East River glitters in the distance. For a split second, I’m disoriented by the vastness, the dizzying openness after the narrow confines of the alley. Then I hear them coming up behind me, and fear crystallizes into pure survival instinct.

I run across the rooftop, weaving between ventilation units and broken satellite dishes. My lungs burn, but I push through, leaping the narrow gap to the next building. When I land, my ankle rolls, sending a bolt of pain up my leg, but I keep going.

They’re gaining. I hear their footsteps, the controlled rhythm of men chasing people for a living.

I slide down another rusty fire escape, nearly losing my grip on the rain-slick metal, but I hit the ground running. My ankle protests with every step, but adrenaline dulls the pain to a distant throb.

I duck into another alley, thinking I’ve lost them, and slam into a third man. Broad-shouldered, with hands like sledgehammers. His burly arms lock around me like iron.

“Got her,” he barks into a comms earpiece, not even winded.

I fight like hell, kicking, twisting, and punching. My elbow connects with his ribs, my heel with his shin. He barely flinches. It’s like fighting against a brick wall.

“Careful,” the tall, dark-haired man says, stepping into the mouth of the alley. Sweat beads on his forehead, but his breathing is only slightly elevated. “Morozov wants her breathing.”

Morozov.

The name chills me to the bone. It’s Russian. Definitely Russian. I don’t know who the hell Morozov is, but I don’t want to find out.

I bite down hard on the arm holding me, drawing blood. The man curses, loosening his grip just enough for me to break free. I bring my knee up between his legs with every ounce of strength I have.

He doubles over, and I take off again, dodging through another maze of alleys until I spill out onto a side street. A delivery truck swerves, horn blaring, missing me by inches. The driver shouts something I can’t hear through the blood rushing in my ears.

I run three more blocks, cut through a deli and out the back before slowing to check behind me. The men don’t follow. Maybe they’ve given up. Maybe they’re regrouping. Either way, I’m not sticking around to find out.

My knees threaten to buckle as I run into my apartment building, taking the stairs two at a time despite my throbbing ankle. I fumble with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I can barely fit the key in the lock. Once inside, I lock the door, bolt it, and collapse against it, gasping for air.

My phone is already in my hand, fingers trembling as I scroll through the contacts.

“Dimitri,” I pant the second he answers.

His voice is sharp, already alert. “What happened?”

I tell him everything. The SUV. The chase. The name.

He curses in Russian, the words low and vicious. “I’m sending security.”

“No!” I snap, my voice stronger than I feel. “I don’t need?—”

“You don’t get a choice,” he growls. “This isn’t about pride,malyshka. This is survival.”

I clench my teeth, panic warping into fury. “The hell it isn’t! This is my life. My apartment. I don’t want your goons outside my door!”

“This isn’t a negotiation. These men won’t stop. They’ll be back.”

I pace, running a hand through my tangled hair. “Who is Morozov?”

There’s silence. Then, “A man who should’ve stayed buried in the past.”

“And now he’s after me?”

“Because of me,” Dimitri admits. “He sees you as a way to get to me.”

I grip the back of the sofa.

“I’m coming over,” he snaps. “Right now.”

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