Page 95 of Unspoken

Then a man appears to his left. They strike up a conversation, their body language tense and aggressive.

"Pause it," Vlad orders.

The security guard does as he’s told.

Vlad and Ivan exchange glances and murmur something in Russian.

"Keep going," Vlad says.

A second man weasels his way to Sasha’s right.

My stomach twists as I realize what's about to happen.

In a flurry of movement, the men grab Sasha, dragging him off his stool. He struggles against their grip.

"Pause it," Vlad commands again.

The guard complies, freezing the image on the screen.

Vlad leans in, his finger jabbing at the monitor. "There. On his wrist. Zoom in."

The guard does as he is told.

I squint at the screen, trying to make out the details. As one of the men grapples with Sasha, his sleeve rides up, revealing a tattoo. A distinctive design, one I've seen before. Long time ago.

Ivan inhales sharply, his eyes widening in recognition. "Toro," he breathes, the word hanging in the air like a death warrant.

The name sends a chill down my spine. Toro is notoriously brutal, with a reputation for violence and bloodshed.

If they have Sasha...

I swallow hard, my mind reeling with the implications. This is no longer just a kidnapping. It's a declaration of war.

And we're standing on the front lines, with no idea what we're up against.

CHAPTER 32

SASHA

I come to with a painful gasp, my eyes fluttering open to a bulb swinging from the ceiling. Fucking hell, my head's pounding like a jackhammer. I try to sit up and the room spins. I'm forced to close my eyes again as a wave of nausea crashes over me.

The events preceding my blackout are slowly starting to fall back into place. Logan and I caught by his former partner at the taco place. Logan freaking out and insisting we speak to Vlad. My futile attempts to talk to my brother. The argument. Papa. Mama. And then my mind stops comprehending. I have only a vague recollection of being in one of Vlad’s cars, driving through the Vegas traffic, ending up at Downers.

Why?

I don’t know.

Maybe because I wanted to find trouble.

I draw in a lungful of breath, my throat and lungs stinging.

What the fuck did they dose me with?

And then comes the next logical question.

Whothey?

Again, my mind refuses to give me any kind of useful information except for a fuzzy male figure approaching me at the bar. But at that point, I was hammered and his face wasa smudge of features. He spoke with an accent. Spanish. The second man is a ghost. All I remember is being hauled from the bar and shoved into the back of a van. Again, could be a bloody dream and not the reality.

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