Page 93 of Ruthless Bonds

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I woke with a gasp, a leather jacket covering me. It was dark, except for the moonlight streaming in through the broken stained glass of the church windows. My stomach churned when I stood, gripping the church pew in front of me as I wobbled.

“Careful,” a voice came from behind me, “youdon’t want to faint again.”

Jameson came forward, his hands held up like he was trying to calm a wild animal. Which was exactly how I felt at that moment.

“Jameson?” My voice quivered, my trembling hands going to my lips. “You’re dead.”

“Surprise, sis.” He chuckled as he stood in front of me. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

I stared up at my brother, so familiar, yet completely different. The teenager who had made me pillow forts when I was sick and had taught me photography now looked like a hardened man, a scar running down his temple to his jaw.

“I’m going to be sick.” I turned away from him as I heaved, wanting so much to throw up, but my body wasn’t cooperating.

“I’m not that ugly, am I?” He laughed again, a teasing note in his voice.

I tried to compose myself, my mind racing as I tried to figure out how this was possible. “What the fuck? What the actual fuck is going on?” My voice rose with each word, hysterics about to take over. I turned, staring at him from head to toe. “How are you alive?”

He scrunched up his face, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, you better start talking right now. I thought you were dead. Murdered by the police. I’ve been mourning you for seventeen years.” Tears clouded my eyes, and he took a step forward. I shook my head, backing up until my legs hit the pew. “What are you doing here? How are you here?”

“What I’m doing here is saving you. And I got here a few weeks ago via plane from Canada.” He saidit so matter-of-factly, as if that was supposed to answer the million questions I had. He sighed and sat down on the pew, patting it. “Can you sit? I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

My entire body was shaking as I sat on the edge of the pew. Was this a joke? Because it felt like a really bad one. How could my brother be alive? Not only that, how had he known when to show up just now and save me from that…

“Who was that woman? The one you shot?” I clasped my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking.

“If I had to guess, I would say she’s one of your husband’s many enemies.” His jaw ticked. “How could you marry him, Alora?”

A chill went down my spine, making me shiver. “What do you know about my husband, Jameson?”

“Oh, I know a lot about Kreos Zokrov. More than you do, apparently,” he scoffed.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Does he know you’re alive? That you’re here?” My mind raced with possibilities. Did Kreos have something to do with Jameson being here?

“He has no idea. Because if he did, he would try to kill me. Again.”

My eyes widened at his words. I looked at Jameson, really looked at him. He was wearing a nice pressed suit, similar to the ones Kreos or Gavriil would wear. His hair was styled, and an expensive watch gleamed on his wrist. There were tattoos running up his neck and covering his hands, and I could barely make out the word on his forearm.

Omerta.

“You’re in the mafia?” I whispered.

“Yeah, not by choice.” Jameson stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That night I died? It was because of your husband. He had me killed. He’s the reason I’ve been gone all these years, Alora.”

“Please, Jameson, explain to me what’s going on.” I balled my hands into fists. None of this made sense. It felt like I was in my very own special episode ofThe Twilight Zone, and every minute, things were just getting worse.

“That night, I saw something I shouldn’t have. I cut through the alley to get to work and saw a cop executing another cop. Before I could run, he grabbed me and threw me in his trunk. The next thing I know, I’m in some fancy house where everything went to hell.”

“But the fire… they said they found your wallet?”

“I was put in a dark basement. It was a nightmare.” His voice dropped, as if haunted by the memory. “There were cells, people locked inside like animals. The guy in my cell, Antonio, said his family was Italian mafia—claimed the Bratva had taken him for leverage for some war they were in. He was young, like me. The other man in our cell had been tortured for days, barely conscious. There was blood everywhere. People screaming, women crying.”

He visibly swallowed, a faraway look in his eyes. I shuddered, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. How terrifying that must have been for him.

“When the shooting started, everything turned into chaos. The cop, the one who had taken me, was opening cells and just shooting everyone. When he got to us, Antonio rushed him, knocking away his flashlight, and sliced his face up with a screw he’d beenholding onto. The cop shot him in the leg, but we kept fighting.”

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