Page 191 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

I get into the backseat. The car rolls smoothly out of the private driveway and onto the broad road.

“Where to?” the driver asks in a thick, husky voice that suits him perfectly.

“South,” I order. “Towards the desert. I’ll guide you.”

He doesn’t react at all. Just presses the gas pedal down and pilots us off into the burning distance.

I didn’t think I’d ever have to go back there. And yet, deep down, maybe a part of me always knew that I hadn’t quite escaped for good.

Because, in this life, consequences always find you.

No matter how far you run.

39

Elyssa

Somewhere In The Desert Of Nevada

To serve is to find peace.

To obey is to find happiness.

To listen is to find truth.

I haven’t prayed in over a year.

But the words are there. They never left.

It seems a lot is coming rushing back to me the closer we drive to the Sanctuary. I keep leaning in towards the driver so that I can see over his shoulder. The last of the city buildings faded out half an hour ago, giving way to scrubby brush, craggy rock, hardened dirt.

It’s not as dead as it looks. I lived out here long enough to know that, as barren as it might seems, it’s teaming with life just beneath the surface.

A desert is deceptive that way. It hides its most precious secrets. It doesn’t let anyone in.

The sand dunes grow taller and broader with every passing mile. Even in the air-conditioned capsule of the car, I can feel the searing heat. Every cell in my body senses it, too. Like magnetic vibrations are surging through me.

My legs bounce. My hands shake. My eyelids spasm.

The driver has ignored me the entirety of the trip, but I’m reaching a place where the silence is starting to twist my thoughts into unwelcome shapes. I need to hear myself speak or else I’m going to go insane before I even get the answers I came for.

“Um, you never told me your name,” I say.

“I did not.”

I roll my eyes. These mafia men are all the same. “What is your name?” I grit, like a teacher who makes you rephrase your question when you say,Can I go to the bathroom?

“Vlad.”

“Short for Vladimir?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a scary name,” I mumble like an idiot.

He doesn’t respond.

“I mean, uh, it’s a nice name. Just, it’s very Russian and Russians are… scary.”

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