Page 13 of Enforcer Daddy
"That's all?" Volkov loosened his grip just enough to let the kid suck in one breath. "Chenkov sends three soldiers to hunt down a simple thief? Try again."
"They just said . . . strange eyes . . . took something . . . check everywhere . . ."
"What did she take?"
"Money . . . maybe . . . or . . ." His eyes were rolling back, his body starting to convulse.
I watched as he squeezed harder, and the man in his arms passed out. He hadn’t killed him—maybe because he had co-operated? Maybe because he was so young he barely looked out of his teens.
Three bodies in less than thirty seconds.
Volkov stood in the middle of the carnage like it was his living room. No heavy breathing, no shaking hands, no adrenaline crash. He looked at the bodies with the same detached interest he'd shown the puppy, cataloging damage and calculating next steps.
Then he turned toward the false wall. Toward me.
The panel swung open, and his hand reached in, not rough but not gentle either. Just efficient as he pulled me out of the compartment. My legs had gone numb from crouching, and I stumbled, would have fallen if he hadn't caught my arm.
The puppy whimpered in my arms, probably smelling the blood, the death, the wrongness of it all. I held him tighter, using his warm little body as an anchor to keep from screaming or running or doing something equally stupid.
"What did you steal from them?" Volkov asked, and his voice had that same conversational tone he'd used while choking the kid out.
My hand shook as I reached into my pocket, pulling out the crumpled bills. Three hundred dollars in twenties and fifties, wrinkled and soft from me clutching them too tight. I held them out like an offering, like three hundred dollars was worth three lives and all this blood.
"This," I said. "Just this. I was hungry, and I saw it on the dresser, and I took it. That's all."
He looked at the money, then at me, then back at the money. His expression didn't change, but something shifted in those dead eyes. Not warmth, exactly, but a kind of recognition.
"Three hundred dollars," he said slowly. "Chenkov sent soldiers across Brooklyn for three hundred dollars."
"Rich people are weird about money." I tried for casual, but my voice cracked. "Maybe it was the principle of the thing."
"No." He stepped closer, and I could smell him again—cologne and gun oil and now fresh blood. "That's not the full story, is it?"
I clutched the puppy tighter, backing up until I hit the wall. "That's all I found."
"I don’t believe you.” He said. But there was no malice in his voice. “You don’t trust me. I understand.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
He shook his head. "I'm not going to kill you. I’m going to win your trust."
I blinked, confused. "What?"
"You're coming with me. Both of you."
"No." The refusal was instant, instinctive. "No, I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't even know who you are."
"Dmitry Volkov." He said it like it should mean something. "Enforcer and second in command in the Volkov Bratva. Youarecoming with me. And you don't have a choice."
"There's always a choice." I sidled toward the open door, toward the blood-soaked floor and the cooling bodies and freedom. "Thanks for hiding me, but I'm good on my own."
I made it two steps before his hand caught my arm. Not painful, just immovable.
"You're not good on your own," he said patiently. "You're exhausted, malnourished, and carrying a sick puppy. Chenkov's people will find you within hours. You'll die badly, and the puppy will die with you."
"Maybe I'd rather die free than live in someone else's cage."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or respect. It was gone too fast to identify.
