Page 75 of The Russian Retribution

“I won’t let that happen,” I snarl, rising just as quickly.

“What are you going to do?” Viktor sneers. “You left her. She’s all alone, without a soul in the world to protect her. That seat is as good as mine!”

30

ANASTASIA

Cormac’s address brings me to a park on the edge of the city, where half the street lights lining the sidewalk aren’t even lit. It isn’t the safest place to be, by far, especially for a woman alone at night, so once I park my car, I keep the doors locked and remain seated.

The parking lot is deserted. An overflowing trashcan creaks slightly in the wind. A paper bag drifts lazily across the ground, and the street light across from me flickers from time to time. Sitting in silence, I rub my hands together against the chill creeping into my car and peer through the darkness.

I left a note for Faina so if anything does happen to me, she’ll know where to look. She won’t be able to do anything to save me, but at least she will look for me.

I’m taking a huge risk trusting Cormac. For all I know, he’s led me here to assassinate me, or worse, and given the history between our families, I can’t say I’d blame him. My father snatched him from the street when he was just a child, and something like that can never be forgiven. Would he hold that grudge against me too? Or is my mind just too suspicious?

Drumming my fingers against my thigh, my attention repeatedly flits back to the clock on my dashboard. The agreed time to meet arrives and passes.

Did I really rush all the way here just to be stood up?

My teeth graze my lower lip as I worry at the skin, debating what to do. I could leave. After all, I’m here and whoever I’m meeting is clearly late. Or is this part of some kind of test to see how desperate I am for help? Knowing my luck, it’ll end up working against me like everything else in this fucking world. Tiredness pulls tight behind my eyes so I lift one hand and rub at them, fighting back a yawn.

I’ll wait ten more minutes.

The softest hum fills the air. It’s so gentle that I don’t notice it for a few minutes until it suddenly grows incredibly loud. A few seconds later, a motorbike screeches into the parking lot and skids to a stop a few feet away from my car.

My heart punches against my ribcage.

The driver is clad in black road leathers, their face hidden by an oval helmet with red piping around the visor. It’s as black as their clothing and there’s nothing distinguishable about their features. The driver kills the engine on the bike, then removes their leather gloves and sets them on the handles on the bike. Their helmet tilts slightly as they glance around, and the moment they clock me in the car, suddenly, their entire stance shifts from tense and tight to relaxed.

Sliding from the bike, the man removes his helmet in one swift move and sets it on the seat of his bike, then he pats the top of it and starts striding toward my car.

The light above flickers on and his face glints into view.

I know him.

Rocky Barati.

How on earth is this Cormac’s friend?

“Anastasia?” Rocky calls as he approaches. “You gonna stay in the car all night?” He holds up both hands as a cheeky smile creeps across his face. “I’m not against it, but I’d rather not be chatting to a windshield, y’know?”

I don’t know much about Rocky other than a few stories. People call him reckless and complain about his lack of interest in family matters. Some say that’s the reason his father, Matteo, hasn’t passed the empire on to him, but I suspect differently. Matteo gives the same vibes as my father—in it until death takes him.

Taking a deep, calming breath, I open the door and slide from the car, but I keep the door open as a barrier between me and Rocky.

“You’re late.”

Rocky’s face crumples as he lowers his hands. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s the bike, I swear. Ever since I got it, I think I can get everywhere in thirty seconds so I left late and traffic was weirdly heavy for this time of night. Who knew so many people have places to be at this time on a Thursday?”

His relaxed way of speaking reminds me of a simple conversation between friends, not a Russian Godmother and an Italian heir. It throws me off because in an instant, he seems relaxed and easy while I’m used to a much more cagey approach to negotiations.

“So!” Rocky moves forward and leans against the hood of my car, crossing his arms over his chest. “Cormac filled me in on your little predicament.”

My eyes narrow slightly. “He told me you could help me.”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?” Suspicion spikes in my mind. “Why would you help me?”

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