Page 33 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“Fuck them!”

Charity turns to me, and, despite her busted face, I can see the shock there. “You swore,” she says in laughing amazement.

“I… I did.”

“How did it feel?”

I sigh. “Weird.”

A bubble of laughter escapes her lips. She groans almost immediately. “Ow, that’s fucking painful. But it was worth it.”

I smile. “Glad I can help.”

“Thank you,” Charity says seriously, placing her head on my shoulder for a moment. “Sometimes, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Back atcha,” I say.

We’re sitting in the silence when I hear another knock on the door. This one is calm. Unhurried. But for some reason, I’m wary.

One knock in the middle of the night is strange.

Two knocks is trouble.

Charity looks at me with trepidation and I realize that, today, I have to be the strong one. I have to be the fearless one.

“Wait here,” I tell her, giving her hand one last squeeze. “I’ll go see who it is.”

“Elyssa…?”

“Yes?” I ask, turning to her.

“Do you think it’s… him?” she asks, fear drenching her tone. “Do you think he followed me here?”

I’d been thinking the same thing. But I force a look of disbelief onto my face and shake my head confidently. “No, no way. It’s probably just some random woman who needs a place to stay for the night,” I say. “Or Miles decided to be a Good Samaritan and make a late-night delivery. Don’t you worry. Whoever it is, I’ll deal with it. Okay? Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

She pauses for a second. “Okay.”

I give her a reassuring wink and head out of the room. I make sure to close the door behind me before I head to the main entrance.

The whole time, my heart is pounding frantically against my rib cage.

“Come on, Elyssa,” I tell myself. “Baby steps.”

I take a deep breath as I approach the door. This time, the person on the other side is shielded from view completely.

“You don’t need to be brave,” I tell myself. “Just a little braver than before.”

Phoenix

FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER—IN HIS CAR OUTSIDE THE WOMEN’S SHELTER

“What the hell are you up to, motherfucker?” I growl under my breath, watching Murray step up to the front door.

The shelter is in need of repair. Roof shingles are missing like bald spots, windowsills sag, weeds burst through the concrete walkways. It’s a broken home for broken women.

Murray peers in through the side door, but he doesn’t knock like I expect. He doesn’t pull out a weapon, either. Instead, he cases the joint with care, his eyes darting from side to side in search of something.

I lean down lower in my seat in case he glances this way. But he seems too preoccupied to notice anything outside of his immediate vicinity.

---