Page 45 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

“You know, like people use in the bath—”

“I know what rubber duckies are,” I snap, laughing a bit despite myself. “That’s not so bad, a little bit of a taunt, sure, but—”

“French rubber duckies.”

“What?”

“They had little mustaches. And they were holding baguettes. He showed one to me after we got out of there. He spent his own money on it, dude.”

“Fuck,” I say, laughing and shaking my head. “That is funny. But we were supposed to do empty crates.”

“There’s more,” Roman says, swallowing, and I stop laughing. “We saw Allard—watched the deal go down. When he opened a crate, and there was no cocaine, just rubber duckies—”

“He was pissed.”

“More than pissed. The guy shot his own guy right there and left him dead on the ground. Allard set the building on fire with everyone inside. He was completely off the wall, dude. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

I think about what my father used to say—rage is nothing without control. Allard is dangerous because when he gets upset, he just throws a tantrum. Like a little kid. Which can be lethal—but not just for his enemies. Eventually, he’ll end up forgetting which way the gun is pointing when he goes off.

“Well,” I say, taking a breath and chewing on my lip, trying to consider our options. “Double the security around all our properties. Nobody gets a day off for the next week. I’m sure he’ll act soon if he’s really that mad.”

“He could be acting now,” Roman says, “he stormed out of there and jumped in his car, leaving a bunch of people behind. That’s why I wanted to catch you right away and let you know what happened.”

“Good work. Where’s Viktor?” I wince, wondering if he’s causing further damage.

“Got a burn on his arm when the building went up. He’s at the Family clinic to get it treated, I asked the doc to delay him a bit so we could have more time. Viktor’s a bit like Allard, all hyped up, ready to go.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I say, “that’s something we’re going to have to try and get under control. But not right now—right now, the focus is making sure Allard doesn’t hit us where it hurts.”

Right as I say it, it dawns on me that there’s one spot that would hurt more than others.

“Fiona is with Anya,” I say, returning to my desk and pulling up the security cameras, “go find them and take them home. Triple security on our girls, and just for good measure, send an alert to the cousins so they can put more protection around their families, too, if they want.”

“Of course, you task me with contacting them,” Roman mutters, but he turns dutifully, walking out of the room and heading back toward the club to locate Anya and Fiona.

I pull up the video footage from the cameras and scan the dancefloor, looking for Fiona’s sparkling top and Anya’s familiar, goofy dance style. But the longer I look, the more worried I get. I don’t see them anywhere—not at the bar, on the dance floor, or outside the bathrooms.

They could be in the bathrooms, I tell myself, as I page one of the female bouncers and ask her to check for me. My heart races as I head to the dance floor. They have to be here.

Because if they aren’t, that might mean Allard has his hands on them. I think of what Roman said, of the man lighting that building on fire, how he’s killed women and children before.

But he knows Fiona. It even seems like he cares about her.

Would that stop him from doing something drastic if he knew it would hurt me?

Chapter 20 - Fiona

Anya is cackling when she pulls me into the alleyway, leaving the beats and dancing in Noch behind us. Somehow, Las Vegas is quieter than the club. I listen to the faint honking and take a deep breath.

I’ve enjoyed being in the country, lazing around Boris’s house, but there is something about the city that puts me at ease. Like the knowledge that you can disappear into a crowd at any moment.

“There’s not a single place in that club where I can get any privacy,” she mutters, running her hand over her dress.”

“There is one great closet if you go through the staff exit,” I joke, realizing I’m pretty tipsy.

“God, in a closet? Disgusting! Fiona!”

“Oh, please,” I say, feeling the warm buzz of the shots we did coursing through my veins. “Like you haven’t done it somewhere worse.”

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