Page 35 of A Bride for the Bratva Boss
A faint whimper, like a muffled cry, reaches my ears.
Every nerve in my body snaps to attention.
I reach the door, grab the handle, and pull, hard.
The door swings open with a groan. At first I don’t see her, but I sweep the space again and find her in the corner, tied to achair. Her face is bruised, her dress torn. Wide eyes look out into darkness she can’t see through. Her chest rises too fast. She’s alive, but terrified.
I take a step toward her, but a man slides out from behind a pillar, he cocks a gun and dig it into my back. “Take another step, Bratva, and you die,” he snarls.
Slowly I lift my hands halfway, palms out, letting the bastard think he’s in control. But this is not surrender. Just calculation.
One voice behind me. One gun, close range.
He thinks that gives him leverage. It doesn’t. He’s already dead, he just doesn’t know it, yet.
I look at Liza, who’s scraping her chair against the floor in frantic movements. “Danyl,” she cries. “Are you okay?” Her breath is sharp and broken.
“I’m fine,” I say calmly. “Stay still. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
The asshole with the gun laughs. “As fine as you can be with a loaded gun to your head.”
Liza whimpers and it guts me. I force my voice to be steady. “Put the gun down.”
The man behind me laughs. It’s a hoarse, smoker’s rattle. “You killed our man, Bratva. You and your little girlfriend. Blood for blood, yeah?”
Liza flinches. “Don’t hurt him,” she says. “He didn’t do anything, it was all me.”
She’s trying to protect me. I’m so proud of her.
“I’ll get to you, again, after I’ve killed your boyfriend. Don’t worry, we’ll have some fun together before I put you in the ground, too.”
Again.He’s the one who hit her.
Cold rage fills my body. I flex my fingers and drop my shoulders, draining them of all tension. “You touch her,” I say softly, “and your whole crew will watch me skin you alive.”
The gun presses harder between my shoulder blades.
He steps closer, another mistake. This guy is an amateur.
I tilt my head, just enough to see him in my peripheral vision. He’s wearing night vison goggles too. Sweat glistens at his temples. He’s nervous. Excellent.
“You think you can walk in here like you own the goddamn world?” he spits. “After you killed one of ours?”
I don’t bother answering, instead I twist, trap his wrist, and drive my elbow into his forearm with enough force to snap bone.
He screams, the gun clattering from his broken grip.
I spin behind him and lock his throat in the crook of my arm. And then I drive him backward into the wall so hard the plaster cracks.
He claws at me, choking, legs kicking.
I tighten my hold. “You were saying?” I whisper into his ear.
His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
I drop him and he collapses to his knees, gasping like a fish.
Then I kick him once, sharp, right across the jaw. His goggles go flying as he hits the floor and stays there.
