Page 6 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
“Why are we here?” I can see what an airfield is usually for, but this makes no sense. Feliks’ gaze locks onto a plane with ajagged black emblem on the tail, a set of steps out the side, and a couple with suitcases approaching from a car.
“To kill some people,” he growls.
What?!
4
FELIKS
“No!” Payton protests. “No, surely that’s?—”
I don’t stop to listen.
“Stay here,” I snarl and as the limo halts, I push to my feet and I’m out and striding towards my private jet.
“Yes, but will there be Champagne?” the woman is saying to my pilot as I approach. My Beckenham men who dragged Payton from the street have just arrived ahead of me, but this is clearly something they weren’t prepared to deal with, and they look baffled.
“I think we can cope with Cava,” the man next to her says reassuringly, but with a note of question.
“But this is our dream wedding trip!” she replies hysterically. “Everything has to be the very best, and Cava isn’t…”
My pilot’s gaze bounces between the woman and me. “Pakhan,” he begins.
I draw the revolver from under my jacket. “Nyet.”
The couple turn and the woman screams, though I’m not pointing the gun at her.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demand.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a small figure creep out of the limo, and I exhale with exasperation.
“Payton,” I snarl, and she freezes.
Still trying to escape. So brave, and sweet, and naive as a baby bird. I was so distracted by this gavno, I forgot to lock the door behind me.
“Encircle her, but do not touch her,” I mutter to the nearest of my men, and they slip off to do my bidding.
“Do not think of running, Payton. You will have blood on your hands if I have to kill him,” I nod at the pilot, “to chase after you.”
She makes a cute sound of frustration.
The woman begins to sob, and throws herself into her partner’s arms. He looks as though he might vomit, but does a good job restraining both her, and his breakfast.
“This isn’t what it seems,” the pilot says, like a fucking cliché.
“It never is.” I’m weary of this.
I crook one finger, beckoning Payton to me. Shooting wary looks at my men who now surround her, she walks over in jerky motions, her head bowed.
As soon as she’s near enough, I grab her little hand and drag her to my side. It’s delicate in my big paw, and I try not to notice it too much, or squeeze her too tight, as I lace our fingers together.
I’m soothed by having her close.
“In what way is this not you taking my private jet—which I pay you to have at my disposal anytime—without my permission?” I ask the pilot.
“It’s not!” the woman screeches. “This is my private jet to take me to my tropical wedding!”
I rub my jaw thoughtfully, and raise my eyebrows at the pilot.
