Page 3 of Hers to Control

I don’t have to wait long. “Eric will meet you at the bus station.” A brief pause follows, then Gianna’s voice comes through tight. “Good luck, Mia.”

My shaking hand pulls the phone away from my ear, even as Gianna’s farewell still hangs between us. I press the red button.

I’ve got to go.

It takes me five minutes to throw clothes, a toothbrush, and a few sentimental items into my backpack.

Will I ever be back?

I refuse to linger on that thought. This place has been my home for almost eight years. It’s been the only stable refuge I’ve had since being a small child, and I’ve poured my heart and sweat into building my martial arts studio downstairs. For the first time ever, the studio will remain closed tomorrow, and I have no illusions that the members I’ve painstakingly recruited over the years will remain loyal to a studio that closes out of the blue.

Before stepping through the door onto the sidewalk, I tape the handwritten note on the glass door.

Closed until further notice. Membership payments for the month will be reimbursed.

It’s the best I can do, even as it will drain the meager resources I have.

I look up and down the road, and my breath catches as I spot a car idling further down the street. It’s just close enough for me to see that Mikhail sits in it, watching me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My mind races as I meet his eyes. The Russians didn’t waste any time, and they sent their chief enforcer.

Will it make a difference that only yesterday morning we sat across a kitchen island from each other?

I don’t have any such illusions. And yet, he doesn’t move. Just stares at me.

As if recognizing that I don’t have any other options, I keep moving as if my life doesn’t hang in the balance. I turn around and lock the door to the studio.

It’s such a mundane task. One that I’ve repeated over and over again over the past eight years. It’s pointless now, and yet, as my mind seems to no longer work, frozen in fear, muscle memoryhas me turn the key and place it in my pocket, as if following this normal ritual will mean my life hasn’t been torn out of its rhythm.

Without another thought, I turn away from where Mikhail sits in his car, and start walking in the opposite direction.

This isnotgood. Not good at all. And there is nothing I can do about it.

Hell, daddy. What did you get me into this time?

I keep on walking, not paying attention to the streets I choose. I just walk and eventually turn my head to check over my shoulder. Mikhail is nowhere in sight. Not that my inability to spot him means I’m safe. There could be any number of Russians trailing me and I wouldn’t be any the wiser.

Should I abandon my earlier plan? Go somewhere else?

It would be easier to hide alone. The thought pops into my mind the same way it has done my entire life whenever I tried to bring myself to trust that someone would come to my rescue.

Except walking through the darkening streets of Toronto, carrying a hiking backpack doesn’t feel like a great strategy right now. I might know how to defend myself, but martial arts won’t keep a Russian from blowing my brains all over the sidewalk if they find me.

And then there is the problem of cash. I didn’t have a large amount of money stashed in the apartment, and I’m not willing to risk using my bank cards, even though I doubt the Russians can actually track that. Taking the chance isn’t worth my life, which means I’ll have to take my chances elsewhere.

For the first time, I look around, trying to determine where I am. It takes a couple of minutes navigating side streets to get to a major intersection. Yonge Street. That means I can head south and get to the station in the relative safety of the traffic lit main street.

Or get shot in the back by a passing car.

It’s not worth pondering. My options are limited, so I set a fast pace and head down to the station where I’ll place my safety in the hands of an Italian mafioso I hardly know.

Great plan.

Chapter Two

Eric

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