Page 40 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“I don’t want to press charges against anyone. So I don’t need to make a statement.”

His eyes bug out a little. “You’re going to let whoever didthatto you,” he says, gesturing to her face, “get away with it?” Again, there’s concern floating on the surface of his words, but something about this guy doesn’t sit well with me. My gut is churning more and more with every passing second.

“Yes,” Charity replies without missing a beat. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I know how things work in this city,” she says. “It’s my word against his. And no one cares about me. After all, I’m just a hooker.”

Murray narrows his eyes. “Or maybe you’re involved in things you don’t want the police department to be aware of.”

Charity rolls her eyes. “Sure, why not? This is why people hate cops.”

“In my experience, the only people who hate cops are the ones who have something to hide.”

Charity stiffens and huddles a little closer to me. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I just don’t want to go down to the station only to be told it’s my fault for putting myself in a dangerous situation in the first place.”

“Detective,” I say, interrupting the two of them, “thank you for coming, but my friend is okay now.”

He takes a step forward, planting his foot in the doorway so that I can’t shut it. “You’re making a mistake.”

I glance at Charity. “She’s not coming with you.”

“I’m afraid this is non-negotiable.”

I see a flicker of fear in Charity’s eyes. “Since when do cops force victims to make statements they don’t want to make?” she asks.

“Since some victims may not be victims at all,” he replies dangerously. The smile that has stayed plastered on his lips this whole time finally disappears. His eyes darken.

Now, he looks like a predator whose prey is about to slip free.

“It’s late and we have things to get back to, Detective,” I say. “If you’ll excuse—”

I’m about to slam the door shut—on his foot if I have to—when he leans in and growls at me, “One last chance.”

I shake my head, and a second later, I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.

Charity grabs my hand and tries to pull me behind her. She’s always protecting me. But this time, I feel like it’s my duty to protect her.

So I keep my body in front of hers as I stare at the grim-faced detective.

“You’re not a cop.”

“That’s right; I’m not a fucking cop. I’m a motherfucking detective, and I demand respect. Especially from filthy little whores like you two.” His voice is slick with fury and condescension. No more politeness to be found.

The insult hits me the wrong way, too. It’s not just the word itself; it’s the tone. The look of anger and resentment in his eyes when he flings it at us like a weapon.

“You need to leave, Detective.”

He brandishes the gun in my face. “Not happening. Now, either you invite me in and be polite, or I put a fucking hole in your whore mouth. What’s it gonna be?”

Charity’s nails dig into my arm, but I’m glad for the sharp, stinging bite of pain. It keeps me focused. Reminds me of how much I stand to lose.

We have no choice here. Just have to pray that something saves us.

Trying my best to quell my shaking, I step back and let him enter, never taking my eyes off the gun.

But just before he’s about to step through the door, something propels him forward. His foot catches the threshold as he stumbles and grunts. He’s still clutching the gun, but he’s out of sorts. Flustered. Stunned.

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