Page 74 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
I was so stupid to believe I was untouchable.
Time seems to drag with those sounds moving around me, but then I register clear words now. They sound close, and I pause to listen, leaning further against the insulated steel.
The words are hazy at first, but I catch a familiar-sounding voice—the same one from earlier. The man who cornered me.
The other sounds different, with subtle hints of another accent. Italian-American, maybe.
Whatever it is, it sounds cold as the man mutters, “They’re stretched thin after those previous attacks, I’m assuming, to compensate and beef up their defenses during their shipments. That’s the only reason this plan even has a shot at working.”
“I wouldn’t waste my time if I didn’t think it would work,” the other returns, sounding smooth and arrogant. “Roman and his bastard brothers assume nobody can outmaneuver them…but while they were busy flaunting, I was watching.”
“Yet, you still needed help.”
The other pauses, and the more I consider it, the more a new suspicion sinks in. This has to be Maxim.
He then says, as if saving face, “You’ll get your cut regardless. The girl’s leverage.”
“And you’re sure he’ll come for her? She isn’t just some bitch he pulled at the club?”
Maxim scoffs. “Of course he will. There was a ring on her finger.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“You should see the size of it. Nobody but a Lukov is letting that much money sit on just any woman’s hand at any given time,” he reassures him, letting a touch of amusement enter his voice. “Trust me, he’ll be here. And when they pull up, we’ll be ready.”
The other man sighs. “If you’re wrong about this, it’s your ass.”
“You worry too much, Aldo.”
“Cattaneo, to you.”
Maxim chuckles, and their steps recede.
I keep my ear against the wall for a moment longer, but they’re too far now, and their voices become too distorted.
My skin crawls as I sit with those words.
They’re working together. Whoever this other man is, he’s obviously hoping to get something out of this deal. It’s likely more than just the cut Maxim promised.
Aldo Cattaneo. Maxim Nikolaev.
I repeat those names in my head again and again, trying to memorize them.
They’re trying to lure Mikhail and his family in while using me as bait, and if they manage that much, I have to tell him. I have to warn him.
Letting go of a shaky breath, my heart aches from how fast it races, and that, paired with my running thoughts, leaves me feeling exhausted. But I can’t just sit here.
If Mikhail comes, he’s going to walk right into their trap.
I need to move. I have to move.
The words echo in my mind, and as I shift in place, more pain moves through my head.
I know I need to go, but I have no idea what’s out there waiting for me. There could be guards waiting silently outside the container. By the sound of it, there are men everywhere.
As I try to work through it in my head, pushing for more courage, the air seems to change.
An overwhelming rush of squealing tires and roaring engines fills the space, surrounding the cans. Immediately, men start yelling, and boots pound on the concrete. Then, volleys of gunfire sound off, echoing through every pop.
