Page 112 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

In just a few seconds, I have Stepan on the phone. “Bring a car to Blaczak’s.”

“Anything else?”

I glance at Liya. She’s not fighting anymore, and her hysterical sobs are covered by my palm. “Ginger ale and a first-aid kit.”

“Yes, Pavel Sergeyevich.”

“Meet us in the alley if you can. But be fast about it.”

I disconnect the call and return the phone to my pocket. After assessing the area, I hoist Liya into my arms and carry her back to the hallway. Past the cops. Past Janine. Past the office where we fucked.

Past the second office where we fucked.

When we reach the rear exit, I hope with all my might that we can make it out of here alive.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Pavel

The cab is quiet when Stepan scoops us up from the alley behind Blaczak’s.

Liya scoots as far away from me as possible and rests her chin on the edge of the passenger side window. A gray hue washes over us as Stepan maneuvers through rainy-day traffic, muttering under his breath every so often when traffic thickens.

Paranoia creeps along my upper back. I look over my shoulder every few seconds through the hazy curtain behind us. The rear window wiper snaps through my vision sporadically.

Stepan doesn’t ask where to go. He knows the drill.

But Liya doesn’t.

Within a few minutes, Coney Island appears ahead of us, soaked with the same gray gradients as the rest of the city. My fingers ache as I rub them together. It’s the same movement I make when I’m staring at a blank page, rubbing charcoal between my fingertips.

Now isn’t the time.

The car slows. The rain grows louder, harder, beating ceaselessly at the roof. Liya remains quiet as Stepan exits the car and pops open an umbrella. He gathers her first.

While she’s surprised, she doesn’t argue. And she doesn’t spare me a glance.

She must be pissed at me. I slide over the seat after her and step out of the vehicle.

While Stepan extends the second umbrella for me to walk beneath, I slam the car door shut and examine our safe house. Rugged on the outside. But comfortable on the inside.

“Who’s left?” I ask Stepan. “Where are the boys?”

He ushers us inside, shakes the umbrellas off on the porch, and deposits them in the nearest rack. After he shakes a few droplets from his jacket onto the rug, he bolts the door and checks the security system.

“Kostya led a team out of the building,” he replies. “He’s with Gennadiy and two others.”

I nod. “Get them here.”

“Yes, Pavel Sergeyevich.”

Liya marvels at the foyer. A rustic chandelier hangs over the hardwood space, illuminating a set of antique banisters that guard the spiral staircase. Electric lamps line the halls leading into other various rooms.

“It’s…” She shakes her head. “Unexpected.”

She hugs herself. Absently, I reach for a coat from the closet and drape it over her shoulders. “Go upstairs. I’ll send clothes.”

Without argument, she disappears.

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