Page 46 of Stolen By the Bratva King

“Stand back!” one of the officer’s yells.

“You need to calm down or I’m spraying you,” another warns.

But I’m too far gone, like a bucking bronco just released from his cage. My head hits the wall again and I see stars.

“I can’t get him to settle down,” one of the officers tells another in a frantic, breathless voice.

“Leave him alone!” Vlad urges.

“I can fight my own battles,” I growl.

“You shouldn’t be fighting at all,” the officer threatens. “Congratulations, you’re getting a resisting charge tacked on. I warned you.”

“You think I give a shit?” I bark out.

“Your lawyer’s going to have a field day with you,” the officer cackles. “Or an ulcer. Either way, hope you saved up enough of your blood money for that.”

Anger sends me leaping, but I don’t get very far. A spray of something hot and spicy hits my face.

Instant pain evaporates the air in my lungs. My face is melting off. My eyes incinerate into the back of my skull.

I scream in agony and collapse to my knees, which sends another throbbing pain pulsing through my legs.

I can’t breathe. My throat is on fire and tears sting my eyes. Everyone is coughing and choking. The air is thick with the toxic fumes of pepper spray.

The fight leaves my body. All I can focus on is the pain.

The blurry form of a cop takes shape in front of my puffy eyes. He wastes no time while I’m in my pepper spray daze.

He yanks my hands behind my back. Pain rips through my arm muscles and I wince, grinding my teeth. My nose smashes into the wall, my chin grinding into it so hard it starts rubbing off a small circle of paint.

Cold metal pinches against my wrists and I hear the click of the handcuffs.

An officer hauls my kneeling body to a standing position. “Let’s move,” he barks.

“I’m innocent.” I’m out of breath. My cheeks are burning. My eyes are on fire and my face is so swollen it’s like I’ve just been stung by a dozen hornets.

I’m stumbling over my own feet, losing my balance from my pinned arms and the alcohol coursing through my veins.

The carrot head wrinkles his nose, his expression repulsed. “You smell like a bourbon factory.”

“This one reeks too,” one of the officers declares, pointing a thumb in Vlad’s direction.

I scowl at Vlad over my shoulder as the officers try to hustle me through the door.

“I’ll call our lawyer,” Vlad calls out, still coughing and hacking from the pepper spray. He’s bending forward, his palms on his knees, drool falling from his mouth.

“Do it quickly,” I pant as I’m dragged out into the parking lot.

The officer who had shown me the warrant for my arrest opens the back of the police car. The lights are on, illuminating the windows with a flickering blue light.

The night is balmy. I’m sweating buckets, my shirt like a second skin.

The cop pushes my head down and shoves me forward. “Get in.”

“Aren’t you going to take me to dinner first?” I growl.

He digs his fingers into my skull. “Stop making jokes andmove.”

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