Page 37 of Escaping the Bratva

V

“I got your text. Is your girl alright?” Marcello asks as I walk into the office. I texted him before leaving the house, letting him know what was going on.

“Yeah. She’s at my place with the dog, but I need to take care of this shit. My past needs to stay in the fucking past, and I sure as shit don’t need Sasha being dragged into it.” Not when she’s just starting to trust me again.

“I got Oscar working on it. He was able to pull up a photo from Brighton’s last arrest, and he’s running facial recognition to get an idea of where he might be.”

I walk over to Oscar and look over his shoulder. His computer looks like something out of The Matrix.

“Find anything?” I ask.

“Not yet. It’s going to take some time for the system to run. Do you have anything else on him I can use while this is running?”

I rack my brain, but I come up empty. I don’t know shit about Brighton. He was Miles’ guy, not mine, which is why it makes no sense why he’d still be after me. He must still be butt hurt from the money he lost five years ago, which tells me he probably hasn’t made it back. Either way, I have nothing to do with him losing the money. Miles was the one that took someone else's money to buy weapons. If anything, Brighton should be going after him, but I guess you can’t go after a dead man.

“Nothing I can think of,” I say to Oscar.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out. Unknown number. I glance at Marcello before answering.

“Well, well, well. It's nice to see you’re finally out of prison. How does freedom taste?” Brighton’s voice sounds like he smokes a pack a day. Oscar must have heard because he grabs some antenna thing from under the desk and hands me a cord to plug into my phone. I plug it in.

“Brighton. I guess you're still broke and crying about a measly few millions?” I tease, but I don’t feel the least bit playful. I’m able to keep my voice light even though every muscle in my body is coiled tight. I want to find this guy and end him. Bury the past for good this time.

“I want my fucking money. I know Miles handed it over to you.”

I laugh. “Yeah, he did. Right before we got fucking raided. If I had to guess, your money is sitting in an evidence room.”

“A raid that you help set up.”

I try to keep myself from chipping a molar as my teeth clench. No one is supposed to know that.

“Not laughing now, are you? I want my three million.”

With those parting words, he hangs up. No instructions, nothing. Even if I was stupid enough to play into his hands, I don’t have three million dollars.

“Tell me you got a location,” Marcello says to Oscar, whose fingers are flying across the keyboard.

“Call came from a café off 12th Street.”

I look at the map he has pulled up on the screen. The cafe is across town. “He’ll be gone by the time we get there.”

“Even if he wasn't, what are you going to do? You’re on parole,” Marcello says. He’s right. One wrong move and my ass is back in prison, and all this would have been for nothing.

I run a hand over my face. I need to think.

*****

When I walk into my house, I’m greeted by Teddy standing in the entry way, barking and growling at me. His body shakes, and now that Sasha has been able to put some weight on him, he looks much more intimidating than the scared dog I’d picked up from the shelter.

“It’s okay, Teddy,” Sasha coos, coming around the corner. She’s dressed in the same outfit as when I left, but her purple hair is piled on top of her head in a loose bun. Her face is clear of all makeup, just how I like it. I walk towards her and wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her close to me. She smells like my soap, and for a minute, I let myself imagine coming home like this every day, with her waiting for me. Teddy lets out one last growl before I hear his nails clicking on the floorboards as he walks away. She pulls back with a small smile on her face. Despite Brighton trying to destroy my life and the tabloids running nonstop stories about us, I’m grateful to feel her in my arms again.

“Hello to you too,” she jokes before wiggling out of my arms and walking over to the kitchen.

“You don’t have much to eat.” She opens the fridge and peers inside, which I’m sure she’s done numerous times throughout the day.

“We’ll order something.” I take my shoes off and leave them by the staircase.

“I could cook,” she offers.

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