Page 21 of Captivated By the Bratva

I wasn’t in the mood to explain my feelings about him. If my dad had an ounce of common sense, he wouldn’t dare to ask me whether I cared about him enough to want him alive.

“I want to live my own life. On my terms.” It wasn’t too much to ask.

“Tough shit. I can’t change the past.”

“But it’s notmypast.”

“A promise is a promise,” he growled, like I was too stupid to understand what he was saying. “I owe Lev because I married your mother when she was already arranged to him.”

“I. Don’t. Care!” All of that happened before I was conceived. No matter how much he clung to his closed-minded reminders that what was done was done, I refused to be a participant in his repayment of his debt.

I didn’t hear whatever he had to shout back at me. There was no time to reply. The conversation ended abruptly as I was pulled to the side.

“Hey!”

I spun, grabbing for my purse as a man gripped the strap and tried to run with it. His bloodshot eyes narrowed at me when I fought back.

“Gimme the bag,” he ordered.

Another man appeared behind him, running up from behind my parked rental.

“What! No, I—” Fear rose up within me as another gangster entered the scene. All of them wore filthy clothes, and each of them had their job. One remained on the lookout. Another was the enforcer, pointing a gun at me. And this scrawny one who stank of body odor and booze refused to give up his hold on my purse.

I was being mugged. Robbed. Exactly what I feared would happen. Alone and defenseless, not even paying attention to my surroundings as I got into this heated argument with my dad, I lowered my guard and became the ideal mindless tourist for these men to gang up on.

“Gimme the bag!” he repeated with a sinister snarl.

The guy with the gun stalked closer, changing his smug expression into something like a rotten leer. Smiling wider, with hunger in his eyes, he dragged his stare up and down me.

“Hold on, now,” he told his thieving comrade. “Maybe we can have some fun with this one.”

Oh, fuck.I shoved my purse at the thief. I needed every dollar and card in my wallet, but I’d hand it over in a heartbeat if it meant sparing the promise of a gang rape.

All three of them stalked toward me, encouraging me further from my parked car.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!I backpedaled, straining to keep my mind clear as adrenaline coursed through me.

My fight or flight instinct kicked in.

I only had one option, and it was the reaction that I depended on often.

Run.

I turned, sprinting away the fastest I could down this trail that began with this map at a scenic area.

I just couldn’t get a break. Running from the Avilovs. Now escaping tourist danger. My lungs burned. My feet ached. That stitch returned in my side, but I didn’t dare look back once.

I couldn’t. They were too close. Right on my heels. I heard their ragged breaths over mine. I felt the presence of their wicked intent. Twice, their fingers brushed over the back of my sweaty shirt as they reached forward to grab me, and I ran harder, faster, with so much desperation that I didn’t know how my heart could handle it.

As I sped toward a fork in the trails, I debated with split-second indecision which way to go. Right or left? Right or left? Lost and terrified, I stopped short when another person walked into the opening before the two different routes. He’d come from the stairs further ahead, and as soon as I spotted him, I blinked and wondered whether I was hallucinating.

Him.

The man who’d taken me from the bar in London.

He’d known my name. He’d protected me from Mr. Avilov’s thug. And he washere.

Questions blasted through the shock that washed over me.

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