Page 10 of No Promises, No Lies

6

THE DARK SIDE OF BOSTON

RORY

Adistraction is the last thing I need.

I didn’t sleep last night. I just kept going over and over the situation in my mind, fortifying my exit strategy. So far, I’ve squirreled away a couple thousand in cash from my job at the Chill Zone.

It’s not enough.

Notnearlyenough.

If I’m going to run, I need money.Documents. I won’t only have to hide from the entirety of the Russian Bratva, but now let’s throw in the Italian Mafia for shits and giggles; an organization arguably more connected than us by far. My head starts to feel spinny.

My father has already taken it upon himself to appoint me extra guards, needing to protect his investment.To keep me from running.There were two armed men waiting for me outside this morning when I walked out for practice.

Alexei, noticeably missing.

My frown deepens at the sight of Petr waiting by the SUV doors, puffing on a cigarette. One of my father’s most loyal men. Of course my father would appoint Petr to the job.

It reminds me that, not only do I require themeansto escape, I also requireopportunity. It would be no small task to ditch the hardened Russian soldiers whose entire job was specificallynotto lose me.

About an hour and a half into a particularly rough practice, those men my father sent to follow me around everywhere appear at the rink door, banging loudly on the glass to get our attention. Alexei was still nowhere to be seen. I’ve asked, but all they’ve told me he wasneeded elsewheretoday. Petr now stands in the doorway of the hockey bench, beckoning me over to him.

Karina skates by my side. “You better go girl, that one right there is not one you want to cross.” She shoots me a wry look and I make a face before skating slowly in Petr’s direction, not in a hurry to find out what he wants.

Petr shouts something at Karina in Russian over my shoulder.

I whip my head back to my coach, expecting an argument, but her back is to me. She’s already skating off.What the fuck?

Gritting my teeth, I take my time skating to the bench, where I stashed my skate guards, along with my bag containing my water bottle and phone. Petr scowls at me the whole way. A look I return, irritated when he doesn’t translate what he’d just shouted at Karina in Russian. Only barking at me tohurry my ass upin English.

Not that I really need him to. I understand and speak fluent Russian, as well as perfected my Italian and Spanish. A skill my motherinsistedI learn and keep secret.

It used to grate on me to keep the secret, and I’d thought about revealing it. My father would be over the moon to knowhis daughter had learned Russian. Back then, all I craved was his approval. But on my brief visits back home to Boston over the years, I quickly realized there was often a discrepancy between what the men said aloud and what was subsequently translated to me. Keeping the secret had proved an advantage for precisely this reason.

Petr had just told Karina,There was a situation, and that he needed me off the streets now, by order of the Pakhan.

It doesn’t happen often, but it’s not the first time. They’ll drag me back to the mansion and put me under extra guard. And we’d wait for however long it takes for the men to come home. Usually bloody.

Something was going down in the darker side of Boston.

I’ve only just slipped the second guard over my blade when Petr reaches across the hockey bench, yanking me roughly off the ice.

Surprised by the rough treatment, I shout out, pulling back. I try to twist out of his grasp, but he holds firm. At nearly twice the size of me, there’s little more I can do to push the Russian brute off of me.

He drags me past the locker rooms, moving toward the arena’s emergency back exit.

“I have to change!” I protest, pointing to the women’s locker rooms as we pass, trying to dig my heels in to stop him.

“No time,Printsessa.” He mockingly mutters the second part, loud enough so I can hear him, but softly enough that he can still deny it if I decide to press the issue. “Move!” He barks out, losing his patience and practically shoving me through the rink’s emergency door and out into the side alley.

I stop fighting, mostly because I’m still in my skates and teetering unbalanced on the uneven concrete underfoot. A black SUV waits for us, its windows tinted dark enough you can’t see in.

“Get in.” Petr growls at me like I’m an idiot baby whose hand he has to hold to cross the street, and I bristle at the tone.

It’s considered a great honor, watching over the Bratva Pakhan’s daughter, but Petrdespisesguard duty. He certainly had other ideas on how he’d rather be spending his days, and babysitting me is not one of them.

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