Page 108 of Sinful Promise

“Jesus, Roman, we need to get there in one piece.” Dmitry clutches the back of my seat as I zip into oncoming traffic, passing the geezer in front of me.

“We’ll be just fine,” I reply, but my heart is in my mouth.

Fuck. Anxiety wells in my chest. I can’t focus on anything but the dark road in front of me.

I look in the rearview mirror.

“Good thing the coppers are all in Monte Carlo for the gala,” Nikolay replies. Funny, he’s practically a Brit now.

“There are four men at my house right now!” I shout.

“We’ll get there in time.” Nikolay tries to pacify me, but it’s not possible. “Anya is fine. The house is fine. Everything has been checked.”

“We’re good, too,” Dmitry says. He slides his phone back into his pocket and checks his gun.

38

DASHA

Francesca narrates the meeting from her coms, informing me that Roman and Irina are in the warehouse. I ask her for more details, but her eyebrows furrow, and she breaks away from the security feed on her phone.

“Fuck.” She stands and pulls her gun from her hip.

“What?” I keep my eyes focused on her like a laser.

“Someone’s breached the gate. They went over it. Four men.”

“Shit. Four? How are we to take on four?”

“Stay down. Remember, if anyone comes into the house, they are an enemy. Even if it’s your brother,” she warns, as if she knows who’s coming.

“Right.” I grab my gun off the counter, holding it like Roman taught me.

I move into the inner kitchen and sink to the floor, my finger on the trigger, wondering if I can shoot someone. Adrenaline flows like the Amazon River, and I know that given the circumstances, yes, I’ll fucking kill anyone who touches me.

My heart is beating like a patient having a heart attack, the sound maddening in my ears. I hold my breath. I’m afraid I’ll give away my location.

I hear grunting and groaning from the foyer. A gun clinks to the floor, scraping and sliding over the tile.

Glass shatters, and then more. It must be the huge mirror in the foyer. I tuck my head and hope Francesca is okay.

More glass breaks behind me. “Where are you, Dasha? A male’s voice calls to me.

Someone is coming for me. His low voice is close, and it’s like playing a game of hide and seek as a kid. I use this information to assess which direction he might be heading.

Fuck.

I move into a squat position, teetering on my toes. My heart races, as if horses are stomping over my chest.

More grunts and groans are coming from the living room now, and shit is hitting the tile.

A shot rings out, and a man yells, “Fuck you,” in Russian.

I put my back against the cabinets. In the noise and commotion, it occurs to me that am a sitting duck.

I inch to the end of the kitchen and crouch closely to the ground, knowing it’s only a matter of time before the man walks around to check for me before continuing his search elsewhere.

I take a shallow breath and peek my head out ever so slightly.

---