Page 31 of Sexting the Silverfox

My best guess is that somebody figured out that Fedorov’s daughter is in Chicago, and they decided to take me in the hope of being able to use me as leverage against my father. I’m not okay with that. I’ve worked too hard to build a decent, quiet, uneventful life.

“And you’re certain they were speaking Russian?” the police officer asks Jason.

“Yes. Positive. Judging by the way they moved, the way they dressed and used their weapons, I’m inclined to believe that at least one of them has some kind of military experience,” Jason replies.

“But so do you,” McKinley says with an admiring smirk.

Jason offers a subtle nod in return. “Yes, sir.”

“Army?”

“Rangers.”

“You fellas pack a punch.”

“I’m not invincible, though,” Jason sighs. “Had I not been carrying a weapon, none of us would be here right now.”

The police officer gives me another curious look. “And what is your connection to Mr. Winchester here?”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Jason answers before I can say anything.

The words roll off his tongue in a way that sounds so natural, so sincere, I could literally cry. He just told the cop I’m his girlfriend.

His lying girlfriend. Oh, God, Audrey, you’re going to burn in hell for this, and you need to figure out a way to make it right before it’s too late.

“Yeah,” I mumble in agreement as Jason puts his arm around my shoulders.

I welcome his careful embrace and feel my whole body gradually warming up and relaxing against his. But the relief comes with a sense of guilt. I don’t deserve his kindness, not with the little bit of truth I’ve actually told him. It was one thing to keep my past private; secrecy isn’t the worst crime one can commit in a relationship. Lying, on the other hand, is infinitely worse.

“Have you considered the possibility that the assailants were trying to hurt you, Mr. Winchester, by getting to Miss Smith first?” McKinley asks.

“It’s highly unlikely,” he tells the officer. “I don’t have any ties to Russians or the mob.”

“The Chicago Bratva is known to be quite influential. They have their fingers in many pies, to the point where a lot of business owners don’t even realize that they’re in bed with them until it’s too late,” McKinley says.

“No, it doesn’t make sense,” Jason replies. “All of my businesses are legal and my own. I don’t have any partnerships established anywhere with anyone else. I vet all of my employees and contractors carefully, given my own Army background. I do my due diligence and pay all of my taxes. I promise you, Officer McKinley, everything is above board with each of my trusts and companies. We even check the donations coming through my foundation. Not once have we found anything that could be flagged as out of the ordinary or less than legal.”

But McKinley raises a skeptical eyebrow. “It could be that you pissed someone off and don’t know it. Have you purchased any new properties lately? Maybe you inadvertently muscled into Bratva turf.”

“Just The Emerald,” Jason replies. “However, this whole neighborhood is clean in that sense. Besides, wouldn’t they have reached out to me first? The news about my company buying the complex came out months ago. If they had a problem with the purchase, surely they would’ve sent someone to talk me out of it.”

“No one came, huh?”

“No,” he sighs deeply. “This is incredibly confusing.”

Not to me, it isn’t. It has nothing to do with Jason or his businesses. This is about me. About my God-given last name and the blood that flows through my veins. Jason’s life was in danger tonight. For better or worse, I was raised in that environment—I’m used to looking over my shoulder.

I know what to do if someone tries to kidnap me or if someone succeeds in taking me prisoner. I know how to leave DNA behind in case I’m killed. And as horrendous as that sounds, it’s what I was taught at a young age.

Other girls grew up with Barbie dolls and ballet classes. I grew up with a strict Russian nanny who never hesitated to spank me whenever I did anything that went against the Fedorov family code: Our Bible was a carefully implemented survival manual in case rival Bratvas ever tried to come after me or my brothers.

I’d hoped I was able to leave it all behind me when I left New York. Clearly, I was wrong.

“How are you feeling?” Jason asks me.

I didn’t even notice McKinley moving away from us. He’s busy liaising with the other officers as they bag bullet casings and lift fingerprints from the dumpster. I remember telling them that one of the assailants leaned into it at some point during the struggle.

“I’m better, thank you,” I mumble, my cheeks burning as I stare at my trembling hands. “I can’t stop shaking, though.”

---