Page 18 of The Bratva Sinner

I don’t sit; nor do I relax. His lips quirk like he thinks it’s funny that I don’t want to sit with him.

Men like him don’t help girls like me without expecting something.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” I say around a mouthful of my banana.

He chokes on his coffee. “Excuse me?”

“If you think I’m going to have sex with you because you saved me, you’re wrong. Try to touch me, and I will drive my knee into your balls so hard that you’ll need a doctor to remove them from your throat.”

That stupid smile again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m going to walk out that door, and you will not follow me.”

“Let me get my keys.”

“Why?”

“So I can drive you. Do you know where you want to go?”

No.

“I can walk.”

“Lila, I’ll take you to the airport. Where do you want to go? Cinder said you’re from Texas. I’ll buy you a ticket.”

My stomach drops, and tears pool in my eyes. “No. Just… I’ll find my way.”

He doesn’t argue.

Five minutes later, I’m in the front passenger seat of a Porsche. I’m trying not to be thrilled by the idea of riding in such a nice car. I put my hands on my thighs. Cinder brought me several changes of clothes. Pride had me wanting to refuse, but modesty reminded me that walking the streets of Miami naked was not a good idea. So, I have a backpack with two changes of clothes in it. That’s the sum of what I have in this life. No ID. No phone. No family. And nowhere to go.

He slides into the driver's seat, and the engine comes alive with a beautiful purr. The garage door opens, and we’re off.

He doesn't say anything for the first few minutes, and I appreciate that more than I want to. I'm watching the city scroll past the window and trying to decide what to do. Texas is thirteen hundred miles away. I can't go back anyway, because my mother is dead, our trailer is a crime scene, and the men who made it a crime scene are probably looking for me.

I glance at him. He's got one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the console between us. He doesn't look angry thatI'm leaving. He looks like we’re just two people out for a casual drive.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask.

"Wherever you want to go. That was the deal."

"Downtown. Just… downtown."

"You should know that Bekir is not the kind of man who lets anything go,” he says.

"I got that impression when he had my mother killed."

"Lila." He says my name, and my God, it feels like he’s caressing me. His voice has dropped, not threatening, just serious. "Bekir works directly under a man named Arlind Derveshi. Do you know that name?"

“No.”

"Arlind has been running women and product through Miami for fifteen years. You’re connected to him. Do you know how?”

"I don't have any connection to his operation."

"He thinks you do. These are very dangerous people.”

"I appreciate the concern." I turn back to the window. "But I've been taking care of myself for a long time."