Page 81 of Brutal Reign
My fingers hover over the keyboard, searching for the right words to describe my situation.
“I feel safer here than I ever felt with Simon.”
Maybe not.
“I’m worried that I’m falling for my captor/husband/baby daddy.”
Also no.
I go with a message that is intentionally lacking details but hopefully reassures him that we’re not in any immediate danger.
Uncle, Thank you for not giving up on us. Kin and I are safe for now, but we’re being kept at a Syndicate compound outside Moscow. The property is locked down tight, but there still might be a way to escape if you can transfer the trust fund money to my account. Has the bank approved the release of my funds? I’m truly grateful for you. -H
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Chen knows what to do. Once the bank releases the funds, they’ll transfer to the offshore account my father set up years ago. Getting access to that account is the real problem. I’ll need a computer without restrictions, which means somehow getting into Pavel’s office.
But hell, I can only think about one step at a time.
I spend the next twenty minutes clicking through random sites—recipes, celebrity drama, shopping pages—establishing normal browsing behavior so their security algorithms won’t detect anything unusual.
Finally, I power down the tablet and slide back under the covers. I stare up at the ceiling, thinking about the life I’m fighting for: Kin and me in New Zealand, living as normal people in a quiet place where violence can’t touch us.
So why doesn’t that prospect fill me with excitement anymore?
CHAPTER
THIRTY
PAVEL
Red strobe lightscut through the haze of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, casting everything in the VIP room in shades of crimson and shadow. Not exactly my venue of choice for arms negotiations, but Dmitri Aslan, head of the Turkish Crimson Brotherhood, insists on conducting business where he can stare at half-naked women.
Across the glass-topped table, Aslan leans back in his chair like he owns the place, gold teeth flashing every time he smiles. His three lieutenants flank him, all wearing expensive suits that can’t hide the fact they’re one generation removed from street thugs.
“These Javelins,” he says, not taking his eyes off the blonde gyrating on stage above us, “they’re American military grade?”
“Straight from a dealer in Benghazi,” Roman confirms, sliding a tablet across the leather booth. “Specs are listed here.”
I check my watch under the table. Seven-fifteen. Is that past a four-year-old’s bedtime? Shit, maybe I should google what time kids his age usually go to sleep.
I haven’t been home in three days. I had to inspect the missiles personally before bringing them back from Libya, which means I haven’t seen or spoken to Hope and Kin during that time.
It’s insane how much I miss them, considering how little time they’ve been in my life. Is this normal? Is this what Roman feels every time he has to leave Liza?
Roman raises an eyebrow, silently questioning why I keep looking at my watch. I tighten my jaw in response.
“The price is steep.” Aslan starts his negotiation. It’s a dance we’re used to. He reaches for his vodka and downs it in one shot. “Can you do better for an old friend?”
“Quality costs,” I snap, not in the mood for the kind of haggling he loves. “The price is more than fair. Are you in, or are you out?”
Roman kicks me under the table, his expression asking if I’ve lost my mind. This is a major deal we’re discussing, and Aslan doesn’t like to be rushed. He finds the drinking, haggling, and whoring the best part of the negotiation.
Roman grabs the bottle of vodka from the center of the table, pouring another round of shots. “What Pavel means is that we already gave you a good deal on the price. Now, it’s time to enjoy yourself.”
As if summoned, a redheaded dancer appears, leaning over to give us a view of her surgically enhanced tits. “You boys need anything?”
“We’re good,” I say without sparing her a glance. They can get to the fun when I’m gone.
For three days, I’ve fantasized about the way Hope came all over my hand in that closet like such a good girl. I don’t expect her to welcome me home with open arms, or open legs for that matter. But I am fucking starving for another taste of her. And everyone here is one more person in my way.
