Page 16 of No Promises, No Lies

But Aidan still doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink—or look away. “We could use a hostage,” He muses, finally. “Heat’s coming down.” As if on cue, a siren cuts through the now quiet club.

A vicious laugh rings out behind me. “The Bratva won’t hesitate to shoot right through her to get to you or me. They couldn’t care less about some dancer.”

“No,” Aidan argues, “but the cops will. Even if they’re crooked, it would be hard to explain gunning down an innocent girl in public.”

I swallow hard but refuse to drop my gaze. Doing so feels like losing whatever game he’s playing. The corner of his mouth ticks up as if reading my mind.

“Fine,” Jimmy finally relents, “But you’re responsible for her. And you put a bullet in her the second we’re clear, got it?” He’s come closer, now within my peripheral vision, eyeing both of us warily while stuffing the rest of whatever it is he’s taking with him into his bag.I watch as he scoops up the black backpack I’d dropped next to the desk at some point.

I assume Aidan nods in agreement. I don’t get to see because he spins me again, releasing me, only to grip my upper arm, pulling me along with him, as we follow Jimmy into the hall.Not sure how I feel about my death being postponed.

While a bullet to the head seemed like the worst likely scenario only minutes ago, being dragged from the room alive suddenly feels far worse.

10

GET ON THE BIKE

RORY

Despite my reservations, I don’t fight Aidan as he escorts me from the office. We move swiftly through the hall, down the stairs, and zig zag our way through the club, stepping around overturned tables, chairs and—bodies.

So. Many. Bodies.

Bratva bodies and the bloody bodies of Johns lay scattered about the club floor, along with broken glass and bullet casings. I let out a choked sob and Aidan turns, observing me, his gaze hardening.

“Don’t cry for them. They deserved it.”

I barely have time to process what he says before we’re behind the bar and through the kitchen. Cool air hits me as we exit out the back door.

The back alley is full of people. I stare out at about seven or eight guys, all either already sitting atop a motorcycle, or in the process of mounting one. Their faces are obscured.

I didn’t notice, but before we exited the office, both Aidan and Jimmy pulled their balaclava back up—likely in case of any cameras.

“What’s this?” The man closest to the door calls out, his Boston accent as thick as his arm when he gestures in my direction.

“A fecking hostage, what else? You idiot.” Jimmy growls and shakes his head, passing by him to slide atop a sleek red Yamaha.

The image of blood pooling under shattered glass is still fresh in my mind and I feel out of sorts. Dazed. Aidan lets go of my arm for a second as he retrieves his own helmet, pulling it on. His dark sweatshirt rides up with the motion, revealing a flash of sculpted muscle.

I’m instantly uncomfortable, trying to reconcile the blood in my mind with the bike and themuscles.

“Mac!” Aidan calls to someone over my head, pointing at me.

A second later, a black helmet flies through the air. He catches it easily, handing it to me.

“Get on the bike.”

His eyes—dark and unreadable—fix on me with unnerving intensity, but fear is at war with shock right now, and I can barely form thoughts, let alone words. I glance around nervously, considering my options. Sirens wail around us, police are closing in. Motors start up and bikes race out of the alley.

Aidan released my arm. I could run; it would basically guarantee a bullet in my head, which I might also get, if I comply.

When I do nothing, Aidan pulls out his gun, pressing the cold metal up against the tender skin behind my ear. “I won’t ask again.” His overall tone is soft, but holds a lethal edge.

I believe him.

I flinch when the motorcycle right next to us peels out, the engine letting out a guttural snarl, as its tires screech against the asphalt.

Hands shaking, I climb on the back of the bike, all too aware of how exposed my legs are under my skating skirt.I let Aidan slide the helmet over my head, and he’s surprisingly gentle. A small seed of hope blooms at the thought of the getaway car being a motorcycle, but the beginning of a plan dies when Aidan clasps a metal cuff on my left wrist.

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