Page 139 of The Bratva Sinner

39

Lila

The room smells like fish and diesel. I hear seagulls and a clanking bell that tells me I’m probably in a warehouse down by the docks.

I didn’t see where they brought me after they snatched me from the house. They put a bag over my head and threw me in the trunk of a car.

I look around.One door. No window. A single lightbulb overhead. The walls are corrugated metal. Nothing in the room I can use as a weapon.

I pace the room.

My wrist hurts. One of them grabbed me by the arm when they pulled me out of the house, and I twisted it as I tried to get free. I don’t think anything is broken.

Cinder.The image of her going down, with blood on her sleeve, still fighting even as they pulled me toward the door… I push it away. She was alive. I saw her moving. I hold onto that and praythey didn’t kill her. I cannot have any more blood spilled because of me.

The echoes of the women screaming and the rapid succession of bullets will haunt me for the rest of my days. Considering the situation, my days might be limited.

I hear footsteps outside the door and the deep timbre of men’s voices. I have no idea how many men are out there. I can’t fight them all, but I will take down as many as I can.

The lock turns.

The man who walks in is not one of the guards. He’s older. Dark suit and no tie. He could be someone’s grandfather at a Sunday dinner, except for the two men who come in behind him and position themselves near the door.

“Lila.”

I don’t have to guess who he is. The man who’s been trying to kidnap me since I was a little girl. The man responsible for my mother’s death.

I’ve pictured him as a huge man. A monster. The man who had me living in fear for the past nine years.

He’s smaller than I imagined.

And he’s three feet away.

“Arlind,” I say.

He smirks, enjoying his name on my lips.

He looks around the room with mild distaste. As if he isn’t the one who put me here.

“This isn’t what I would have chosen,” he says.

“I’ll survive the ambiance.”

He clasps his hands in front of him. “Your father was a foolish man,” he says. “He crossed me.”

“He sold me.”

“He paid a debt.”

“With a life that wasn’t his to give away,” I reply.

He shrugs. “You’ve been difficult.”

“So sorry to try to live without being one of your sex slaves.”

“Your husband is a problem.”

“Totally agree,” I say.