Page 61 of The Enemy Protector
I shake my head. I can’t believe this is the guy that’s protecting me. He looks like a surfer. Or maybe a quarterback. Very all-American athlete vibes.
I walk down the driveway and step through the small gate.
“Morning,” he says.
“You’re still here.”
“I’m always here.” He opens the back door. “Ready?”
I look back at the house. The compound that’s supposed to keep me safe. I’m pretty sure the enemy is within. I’m safer at my true enemy’s house.
And that’s disturbing.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
I slide into the backseat. Nelson gets in the front. Another man I don’t recognize is driving.
We pull away from the compound. I watch it disappear behind us and feel a strange sense of relief. And loss. Like I’m leaving something behind I’ll never get back.
Maybe I am.
The drive takes twenty minutes. We pull up to a high-rise in Midtown. The kind of building that screams money. Security is everywhere—cameras, guards, reinforced glass. Nelson leads me through the lobby to a private elevator that requires a keycard.
“Penthouse,” he says, swiping the card.
Of course it’s the penthouse.
The elevator is silent. I watch the numbers climb. My heart is racing. I tell myself it’s just nerves. Just adrenaline from last night.
But I know it’s more than that.
The doors open directly into an apartment. Not a hallway. The apartment. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the entire city. All black, white and gray. Very cold.
And somehow, it doesn’t feel like him. Sergei seems more—dark. Dark woods. Low lighting. This is all too sterile.
But it’s exactly what I would expect from a cold-hearted bratva leader.
Sergei is standing by the windows, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city like a king surveying his kingdom. Which is very accurate given who he is. He turns when he hears the elevator.
“Sofia.” He dismisses Nelson with a look. The elevator doors close behind me, and suddenly we’re alone.
“This is quite the place,” I say, because I need to say something.
“It’s secure. That’s all that matters.”
I walk further into the room, taking it in. There’s a dining table that could seat twelve. A kitchen that looks like it’s never been used. Everything is pristine. Impersonal.
“You don’t live here,” I say.
“No.”
“Then why are we meeting here?”
“Because it’s private,” he says. “Secure. And because if you agree to my terms, this is where you’ll be staying.”
He gives me the wordif,but everything else about him says he already knows how this ends.
I turn to face him. “Excuse me?”
