Page 6 of Ruined

Ivan's men. Has to be.

Evelyn backs away, violin case held in front of her like a shield. Her eyes dart frantically, searching for an escape route that doesn't exist.

I'm twenty feet from the entrance when one of them grabs her arm. She lashes out, swinging her violin case. It connects with his face—good girl—but the other two close in.

I barrel through the glass doors, my gun already drawn. The first man spins toward me, but I'm faster. I drive my knee into his groin and slam my elbow into his temple as he doubles over.

"The boss wants her unharmed," one of them barks at the others. "Just get her in the fucking car."

Ivan. That Russian piece of shit thinks he can take what's mine. Well, not really mine, but that doesn't matter.

The second guy charges at me while his partner moves toward Evelyn. I duck under his swing and drive my fist into his kidney. He grunts but doesn't go down. These aren't street thugs—they're trained. Military background, maybe ex-Spetsnaz.

"Get your hands off me!" Evelyn shouts, her voice sharp with fear and rage. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"

I block a punch aimed at my face, twist the man's arm behind his back until I hear the satisfying crack of bone. He howls, dropping to his knees. I kick him in the face and he crumples to the floor.

When I look up I see the third man has Evelyn cornered. Her eyes meet mine for a split second—wide, terrified, but defiant.

"I said get your fucking hands off?—"

The crack of his palm against her face echoes through the lobby. Her head snaps back, violin case clattering to the floor. She slumps against the wall, then slides down, unconscious.

Everything goes red.

I cross the distance in three strides. The man turns, reaching for his weapon, but he's too slow. My first punch crushes his windpipe. The second breaks his nose. The third splits his cheek open.

He falls to his knees, gasping for air that won't come. I grab his head between my hands and slam it into the marble floor. Once. Twice. The wet crunch tells me he won't be getting up.

The first guy I hit is struggling to his feet. I turn, pull my gun, and fire. The bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around. Before he can recover I'm on him, pressing the barrel against his temple.

"Who sent you?" I already know, but I want to hear it.

He spits blood onto the floor. "Fuck you."

I press harder. "Ivan Volkov sent you, didn't he?"

His eyes widen slightly. That's all the confirmation I need.

I crack the butt of my gun across his face, and he joins his friends on the floor.

I move to Evelyn, kneeling beside her. A bruise is already forming on her cheekbone. I check her pulse—steady and strong. She'll have a headache when she wakes up but she'll live.

I holster my gun and lift her into my arms. She weighs nothing, fragile as a bird. Her violin case lies nearby and I grab that too. Can't leave it behind.

I cradle Evelyn against my chest, her body limp and trusting in unconsciousness. Something tightens in my chest—something I don't have time to examine. I need to move. Fast.

I glance at my Ducati across the street. Shit. Can't take her on the bike.

I shift her weight to one arm and dig through her small purse with my free hand. Lipstick, phone, wallet, and—there. Car keys.

"Let's go, music girl," I mutter, carrying her toward the parking garage.

I lay Evelyn across the back seat as gently as I can, then slide her violin case beside her. She stirs slightly, a small moan escaping her lips. The bruise on her cheek is darkening. My jaw clenches. Ivan will pay for that mark.

I slip into the driver's seat and adjust the mirrors. As I pull out of the garage I grab my phone and dial Matteo.

"What?" His voice is thick with sleep.

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