Page 66 of The Bratva Sinner

I look out the window. We’re speeding through the parking garage, tires squealing as we take the corners too fast.

I see Mike running after us, but we’re too far ahead.

The SUV bursts out into daylight, merging into traffic. I hear horns blaring and people shouting.

This is it. They’ve got me. Whatever happens next is going to be bad. Really bad.

The man next to me is on his phone, speaking in a language I can’t understand.

I look at the door handle. We’re going at least thirty, weaving through traffic. If I jump, I might die.

But if I don’t jump, I’m dead anyway. Or worse.

I’ve been thrown from horses running faster than this. I’ve hit the ground hard before. I’ve survived worse.

That’s what I tell myself as my hand closes around the door handle.

The man sees what I’m doing and lunges for me.

I pull the handle and throw myself out.

The world becomes a blur of motion and pain. I hit the asphalt and roll. Something in my shoulder crunches. My head bounces off the pavement despite my attempt to tuck and roll.

I hear brakes screeching. Horns. Shouting.

Everything hurts. Every fucking inch. I feel like my skin has been peeled from my body.

I try to push myself up, but my left arm won’t cooperate. I look down and see it hanging at a wrong angle.

Dislocated or broken; I can’t tell.

I hear screeching tires followed by someone shouting. I’m so dizzy. I try to crawl away, but my arms and legs don’t feel like they belong to my body.

“Lila!”

I know that voice.

Hands grab me, and I’m lifted off the ground, cradled against a chest.

“Hold on,” Mike says. “I’ve got you.”

He’s running, with every footstep bouncing my head. I’m going to puke. I hear more gunshots behind us.

Another car door opens. I’m placed in the back seat as carefully as possible, but every movement sends fresh waves of agony through my shoulder.

“Go!” Mike shouts at whoever’s driving. “Go now!”

The car lurches forward. I’m pressed back against the seat, and my injured arm screams in protest.

Mike is in the back with me. I realize he’s bleeding—a dark stain spreading across his side.

“You’re hurt,” I croak out.

“I’m fine.”

I hear moaning from the front. The driver is slumped over in the front seat.

“Where’s George?” I ask, even though I know the answer.