Page 87 of Bratva Prisoner
I duck into the actual bathroom and splash cold water on my face, using the time to compose myself before returning to the table. When I emerge, Troy is standing in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Funny thing,” he begins, blocking my path back to the main room, “It took you some time to find the bathroom.”
My heart pounds against my ribs, but I force myself to laugh. “Too much bourbon, maybe?”
“Maybe.” He studies my face with bloodshot eyes that look more alert than they should, given how much he’s been drinking. “Or maybe you’re not as happy to be here as you’re pretending, and you’re looking for a way out.”
“Of course I’m happy,” I protest as I inch toward him. “Why would you think otherwise?”
Instead of answering, Troy grabs my wrist and twists it hard enough to make me gasp. His grip feels like a steel manacle, and when I try to pull away, his fingers tighten until I whimper.
“Because,” he snarls, all pretense of drunken friendliness evaporating, “I know when I’m being played. And you, sweetheart, have been playing me all evening.”
“Troy, you’re hurting me,” I whimper, tugging at my trapped wrist.
“Not as much as I’m going to hurt you if you don’t start telling me the truth.” His free hand comes up to close around my chin. “What did you tell them?”
“Tell who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your boyfriend and his Russian friends. How much does Barkov know about my operations?”
“Nothing,” I lie desperately. “I haven’t told anyone anything.”
“Bullshit.” He twists my wrist harder, sending fire up my arm. “You think I don’t know about the surveillance? About your boyfriend’s little rescue mission?”
Terror claws up my throat as I realize how thoroughly I’ve underestimated him. Troy isn’t just a jealous ex-boyfriend with control issues; he’s a career criminal who’s survived in this business by being paranoid and ruthless. The performance I thought was fooling him barely scratched the surface of his awareness.
“I came here willingly,” I insist. “I chose you over him.”
“No, you chose to sacrifice yourself to protect that artist bitch. Noble, but stupid.” He drags me back toward the main room by my wrist. “Now you’re going to call your boyfriend and tell him to back off, or I'll start mailing him pieces of you.”
The threat galvanizes something inside me. I remember every lesson Maksim taught me about fighting back, every technique he drilled into me. Troy might be stronger, but he’s also drunk and overconfident.
I wait until we’re in the center of the room, then pivot on my left foot and drive my knee upward with all the force I can muster. The impact connects solidly with Troy’s groin, and he doubles over with a grunt of pain, releasing my wrist.
“You fucking bitch,” he wheezes before lunging for me with both hands extended.
I dodge to the side and try to make it to the door, but Troy recovers faster than expected. His hand closes around my ankle, sending me toppling onto the floor with a painful thud. Before I can scramble away, he’s on top of me, pinning my arms with his knees.
“Should have stayed gone,” he pants, raising his fist above my face. “Should have kept running instead of playing hero.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the impact, but instead of pain, I hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire fromsomewhere else in the building. Troy freezes above me and turns his head toward the noise.
“What the fuck—”
The door explodes inward with a crash that shakes the entire room. Maksim fills the doorway like an avenging angel, his face contorted with rage and a gun in each hand. Behind him, I can hear more gunshots and shouting as his brothers engage with Troy’s security.
“Get off her,” Maksim orders.
Troy scrambles to his feet and reaches for something inside his jacket, but Maksim doesn’t give him the chance to draw whatever weapon he’s going for. The first shot takes Troy in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second catches him center mass, and he crumples to the floor like a marionette with cut strings.
I roll away from Troy’s body and push myself upright, and my whole body shakes with adrenaline and relief. “Maksim—”
“Are you hurt?” He’s beside me in two strides, and his hands run over my arms and face to check for injuries.
“I’m okay,” I manage. “But there are children. He told me about the children they’re holding at a facility on the east side.”
“We’ll get them,” he promises, pulling me against his chest. “But first we need to get you out of here.”
