Page 85 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

As we approach another junction, a flicker of movement catches my attention. I raise my hand, signaling Dmitri to stop. We press ourselves against the wall, barely breathing.

Four men round the corner, their weapons at the ready. They haven’t spotted us yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I hold up three fingers, counting down. As my last finger drops, we spring into action.

I launch myself at the nearest man, driving my knee into his stomach. He doubles over, gasping for air. I grab his head, slamming it against the wall with a sickening crack.

Dmitri engages the second man, their struggle a blur of fists and elbows. I turn my attention to the remaining two, who are finally overcoming their shock.

One raises his gun, but I’m faster. I close the distance between us, grabbing his wrist and forcing up the weapon. A shot rings out, and the bullet embeds itself harmlessly in the ceiling. I twist his arm sharply, feeling bones grind beneath my grip as he cries out. The gun clatters to the floor. There’s no muffler on this one, so the sound of it firing will have carried.

The fourth man charges at me, swinging wildly. I duck under his punch, driving my fist into his kidney. He staggers, off-balance. I capitalize on his vulnerability, unleashing a flurry of strikes to his face and body. There’s no reason not to draw my gun now, but my hands are too busy.

A grunt of pain draws my attention. Dmitri is on the ground, struggling with his opponent. The man has him in a chokehold, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

I abandon my current target, launching myself at Dmitri’s attacker. We tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs. I drive my elbow into his face repeatedly, feeling cartilage crunch beneath the onslaught.

Dmitri gasps for air, coughing violently. I spare him a glance, ensuring he’s okay before turning back to the fight. The man I’d left standing earlier charges at me, tackling me to the ground. We grapple on the cold stone floor, each fighting for dominance. He wraps his hands around my throat, squeezing with desperate strength.

Black spots dance at the edge of my vision as I struggle for air. I slash my fingers down his face, seeking any vulnerability. I find his eyes and dig in my thumbs mercilessly.

He screams, releasing his grip. I gulp in precious oxygen, my head clearing. With a surge of strength, I buck him off, reversing our positions.

My fists rain down on his face, each impact sending shockwaves up my arms. I don’t stop until he goes limp beneath me, his features a bloody mess.

I struggle to my feet, surveying the carnage around us. Dmitri stands nearby, leaning heavily against the wall. All four of Matvey’s men lie motionless on the ground.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

Dmitri nods, rubbing his throat. “I’ll live. You?”

“Never better,” I lie, ignoring the throbbing pain in my ribs. “Let’s keep moving. We’re getting close.”

We continue down the corridor, our progress slowed by the need for caution. Time presses down on me, with each second ticking away bringing us closer to Matvey’s deadline.

32

Claire

Aharsh shiver wracks my body as the damp chill penetrates my cotton blouse and slacks, the stone floor beneath me leaching every bit of warmth. I long for the warm spring sunshine I was enjoying earlier in the day while Mom and I walked in the garden after tea and before lunch.

Dr. Ivanova’s abandoned brass lantern flickers against the moss-covered walls, creating dancing shadows that twist and writhe like spectral dancers. The flame gutters, sending a tendril of smoke toward the ceiling.

“You may dress now,” Dr. Ivanova had said earlier, her thick Russian accent making the words sound more like a command than permission. Her steel-rimmed glasses had caught the light as she made careful notes in her leather-bound journal. “Pregnant, as you probably know.”

The memory of her latex-covered fingers, cold and impersonal during the examination, makes me wrap my arms around my middle. The lantern continues its silent vigil, perhaps a smallmercy left behind or simply forgotten in her hasty retreat. Either way, its glow does little to dispel the hollow emptiness filling me.

I appear calm on the outside, but my thoughts race with desperate plans for escape. The syringe I managed to pilfer from her medical bag during the pelvic exam is hidden against my body, out of sight from the corridor. It was a risky move, but desperation fuels boldness.

The faces of Mom and Dad swim before me. I picture Mom’s gentle smile as she arranges roses in the shop window, and Dad’s laugh lines crinkling when he tells another terrible joke. The images twist into darker iterations of Mom’s flowers scattered across the floor, and Dad’s glasses shattered.

“Please be okay,” I whisper aloud, digging my fingers into my palms and forming half-moons in the flesh. “Please, please be okay.”

Sweat beads on my forehead despite the chill. What if they’ve hurt my family? What if they’re lying somewhere, bleeding, or calling my name? The thoughts circle like vultures.

I squeeze my eyelids shut, conjuring Valerian instead. “Where are you?” The words escape on a shaky breath. He must be searching. Must be tearing this city apart looking for me. Because if he isn’t... if I’m truly alone...

No. I won’t let my mind go there. Valerian will come. He has to.

The guard drags his metal baton across the bars of my cell, creating a grating screech that sets my teeth on edge. His thin lips curl into a smirk as he watches me through the iron bars.

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