Page 42 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
Fear settles cold and heavy in my chest. This isn’t paranoia. Someone is following me.
I press the accelerator harder, weaving through traffic that’s thinning as I get farther from Midtown. The sedan keeps pace, no longer pretending subtlety. It closes the distance between us, aggressive and deliberate.
My hands shake on the wheel. I fumble for my phone, trying to dial 9-1-1 while watching the road, but it slips from my fingers and lands somewhere in the passenger footwell.
The streets are emptying now, fewer cars, fewer witnesses. I don’t recognize this neighborhood. It’s all industrial buildings, closed businesses, the kind of area that’s deserted after dark.
Exactly the wrong place to be right now.
I take a sharp turn, tires squealing. The sedan follows easily, and now I can see there are two of them. A second black car has appeared from a side street, boxing me in.
This is really happening..
Is this it, the consequence he promised?
I accelerate again, pushing my aging Honda past speeds it wasn’t designed for. The engine whines in protest. One of the sedans pulls alongside me, and I catch a glimpse of the driver; it’s a man I don’t recognize, face expressionless, purpose clear.
The second sedan cuts in front, brake lights flaring.
I slam my brakes, but it’s too late. My car skids, tires screaming against asphalt. I wrench the wheel hard, managing to avoid a full collision but losing control completely. The car jumps the curb, crashes into a chain-link fence, and stops with a violent jolt that snaps my head forward.
Pain explodes across my chest where the seat belt catches. The airbag deploys with a sound like a gunshot, powder filling the air, making it impossible to see or breathe.
I claw at the seat belt with numb fingers, panic overriding rational thought. I have to get out. Have to run.
Car doors slam outside. I hear footsteps approaching.
I finally get the seat belt unlatched, shove the door open, stumble out onto pavement that tilts under my feet. My legs won’t hold me properly. Everything hurts.
Three men stand between me and any possible escape route.
They’re armed. Guns raised, pointed directly at me.
Terror freezes me in place. This is real. This is actually happening. I’m going to die here, alone on a street I don’t recognize, and no one will know what happened.
“Please!” My voice comes out broken, barely audible. “Please, I don’t—”
“Get in the car.” The closest man gestures with his gun toward one of the sedans. His accent is thick, Eastern European. Russian, maybe.
Dimitri’s people.
This is punishment. This is what happens when you cross men like him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, hating how my voice shakes. “I’m sorry, please let me go.”
“Now.”
He takes a step closer, and I see his finger tighten on the trigger.
This is it.
Then gunshots explode through the night.
The man in front of me jerks backward, red blooming across his chest. He drops, and I’m screaming, scrambling away from the body, from the blood that’s suddenly everywhere.
More gunshots. The other two men turn, firing at someone.
I catch sight of Dimitri.
