Page 17 of Innocent Bratva Virgin

The car the arms suppliers had brought with them contained nothing of interest, so I abandoned the search there and proceeded to the first black Escalade parked in the group of license plates I recognized from previous work.

The thing was locked, of course, but it didn’t take long to hook up my code cracker to the door and get the thing open. Technology really was such a wonderful thing most of the time. It made the job of a thief or hitman so much easier in most cases.

Not at all what the sellers want you to believe.

As the lock disengaged, I pulled open the door, sure to be quiet in case there was anyone around. The thought prompted me to look over my shoulder and check, but the coast seemed clear, and I turned my attention back to the inside of the car.

And then my mouth fell open.

Inside the Escalade, there weren’t weapons aplenty or drugs. There was no one sitting just inside leveling a gun at me, which would have sucked but potentially have been manageable since I was wearing a vest. No, what I found tucked into the seat in the back was somehow worse.

A kid?

The blood drained from my face as a small boy about five or six looked up from their tablet and made eye contact with me. What in the absolute fuck were the Italians thinking bringing a child to something like this? Were they insane?

My gut tightened, and when I blinked, the image of my dead mother hit me square in the face. Flop sweat immediately poured from my brow, and I nearly threw up. I’d been about his age when I’d seen her killed. I’d looked so much like this innocent kid sitting in the back of a mobster’s car when myfather had raised his gun and taken away the only person I ever truly loved with all my heart.

Older brothers are usually bullies, and Ivan and Abe hadn’t been any different.

Everything spun, and I was frozen in place, unable to look away or blink as the terrified kid just stared at me. It was possible I looked just as freaked out as he did, and my grip on the car door squeezed reflexively.

The squeak of my leather glove against the door was so loud in the suspended moment of silence between me and the boy—so loud, in fact, that it startled him, making the kid jump and yelp. The tiny scream echoed against the brick building surrounding the alley.

Fuck.

As I shut the door, another sound whizzed through the air.Pop. I looked over to my right as my nerves recoiled from a burst of burning electricity, finding one of the Italians standing just a few feet away with his gun raised. He was breathing hard, having clearly just run here, and I took a step forward, lifting my own weapon.

Pain roared through my hip, but I had to ignore it since the asshole here was looking like he planned to fire again since he hadn’t killed me. I beat him to the punch, squeezing the trigger, grateful for the suppressor and the muffling that it provided since I was firing right in the damn street.

My aim was much better, and the guy went down in a heap, suddenly bones as the nerve signals were abruptly cut off.

I looked back to the car. The windows were tinted, and the door was closed. The kid hadn’t seen that.

Thank fuck for small miracles.

But when I started to move again, more pain blazed through the skin and muscle of my right hip. I looked down. The Italian shot had grazed me, but the tear was clean through my pants and flesh and bleeding up a damn storm.Dammit, not good. I need to stop this.

Putting a tourniquet on to staunch the bleeding from my hip wasn’t going to work very well, and I needed to get moving. I couldn’t stay there in the alley. More people would be coming, and I could already tell that I needed stitches.

Boom!

I was shunted back against the car door as a massive shockwave rocked the building up ahead. Abe had clearly gotten creative with the explosives, and that was most definitely my cue to get the fuck out of there. The remaining threats in the building were either neutralized or are now running because the police will respond to them.

Right on time, the pound of footsteps and shouted orders started filtering down in my direction. The Italians were coming, and I was currently bleeding all over their ride.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Looking around, I went for immediacy first. A place to hide was essential. I could deal with getting back to my brothers later. About a block up was a thick dumpster pulled up to the loading dock of one of still in-use buildings. I did my best to hurry over to it, my fucking leg throbbing with each clumsy step.

Running was going to make me bleed out that much faster, but I had to get out of sight fast, so my options were limited. The crew was right behind me, getting louder by the second, and I dove behind the dumpster, landing hard on the asphalt right as they rounded the corner behind me.

The ache was immense, but I remained silent, pulling on every ounce of training and experience I had to stay quiet while the Italians hopped in their cars and drove off.

It took forever, which in reality was likely under a minute. Still, every second I lay there on the ground, my hip pulsed harder, leaking more of that important red stuff all over the cement and grime.

When the sound of their engines was finally quiet enough to assume they were out of eyeshot, I pulled myself up, thanking my exceptional preparation skills for reminding me to wear gloves. The dumpster was disgusting. I could smell the decay so strongly that my nausea from earlier was just getting worse.

However, that could have also been the blood loss.

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