Page 36 of Stolen By the Bratva King

“You should come back,” he says.

“To your condo?” Disbelief rakes through my brain.

“Yes. I think it was a mistake for you to leave,” he admits. He sounds tired too.

I sit up straighter now, suspicion crawling through my bones. “Why?”

There are a million reasons I want him to give me.Because I miss you. Because I need you. Because I can’t sleep without you.

“I think we can still work things out,” he says.

I’m only slightly crestfallen. I’m too tired to be anything else right now. All the adrenaline has burned off.

“Professionally?” I ask.

“In whatever way is comfortable for you,” he says, and his voice is genuine.

I blow out a hard breath and rub my palms across my sore and puffy face. “I need to think about it.”

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved earlier,” he says. “I should have been more sensitive to your emotions.”

“It’s okay.” I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “I’m sorry too.”

“You did nothing wrong,” he says.

“Well, I shouldn’t have yelled and freaked out,” I admit.

“It was a natural response to being shot at,” he says, apology lacing his voice.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come back.” I wince when there’s silence on the other end.

David exhales and mutters something in Russian under his breath.

“What did you say?” My teeth nibble at my bottom lip.

“Nothing,” David sighs. “I wish you would reconsider. Just sleep on it and call me in the morning.”

I wait a beat to respond, but tears still flood my eyes when I say it, blurring my already hazy vision. “I think my answer will be the same in the morning. I’m sorry David, I really am, but we just can’t make this work. You said so, yourself.”

I hang up before he has time to retort. I turn off the light without changing or washing my face, and curl up in a ball on my bed, hugging my arms around my chest. I don’t even bother to get under the covers.

I lay like that, crying myself to sleep, but I need to stay strong. David’s words from earlier are embedded in my skull, driving me crazy with doubt and self-loathing. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of journalism and should stick to safer, heartfelt articles. I’ll get an earful from Robert, but facing his wrath is better than facing the barrel of a bratva gun.

14

David

Vlad picks up on the first ring, but he sounds groggy. “Hello?”

“What are you doing?” I growl.

“Why? What happened?” A bit of life springs into his voice after he hears the agitation in mine.

“Fuming,” I say.

“Do you need me?” he asks without hesitation.

“There was another shooting,” I say, pacing my kitchen. I can’t go into my bedroom. It feels too empty without Hazel in it.

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