Page 72 of Captive Prize

Didn’t they know about her condition?

One shard of glass and she would bleed out.

I needed a gun, and backup.

But most of all, I needed Zoya to stay down.

“Printsessa, stay here,” I demanded.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide as she nodded.

I thought she understood.

With a quick press of my lips to her forehead, I got to my feet, staying low as the kitchen took hit after hit and I half crawled, half ran behind the counters to the other side of the room.

How did this happen? The cabin was protected. No one should have had any idea where it was.

The only men who were allowed here, ever, were ones that had been working for my family for years, most of them distant cousins themselves or men who had married into the family.

This should have been impossible.

Just as quickly as the questions flashed through my mind, so did the answer.

The fucking doctor.

He had to have been the one to sell us out.

Kostya brought the doctor, but he wasn’t the doctor from the compound. That man was busy treating Alina and Pavel. Their care was a greater priority because they were Ivanovs and Alina was carrying another in the next generation.

When I demanded a doctor, they had to get someone else.

And knowing Kostya, the doctor they brought in was not in a position to refuse. He probably owed hundreds of thousands of dollars in gambling debts. Kostya would have promised to knock down that debt or extend the time he had to pay before he started losing body parts.

A man like that could not be trusted.

Not because he owed us money, but because if a man—especially a doctor, who would make good money in the U.S.—owed the fucking bratva money, you had to ask yourself, who else did he owe?

He must have owed the Colombians, too.

Fuck.

And that was why they were comfortable firing through the glass. The doctor must have told them she was given the medication.

I hoped he had already spent whatever my cousins paid him and that he was living it up. Because as soon as I got my hands on that doctor, he was a dead man.

That motherfucker had brought war to my doorstep, and once I survived this… I was going to enjoy killing him.

All was fair in war, but he didn’t get to save Zoya only to deliver her back into danger.

Finally, I got to the other side of the kitchen and grabbed two guns that were secured under the cabinets. I aimed out the window and started firing.

I couldn’t see shit.

There were at least three cars, all of them with their headlights on bright and aimed directly into the kitchen.

Meaning I couldn’t tell where the bullets were actually coming from.

I couldn’t even judge how many men were there. There were too many bullets flying, too many guns firing to tell them apart.

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