Page 7 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
All three men freeze. One of them, broad and watchful, turns fast, eyes scanning the dark.
The man with the gun moves slower, like he already knows where I am. Like he’s tracking prey. He looks toward the crates. His eyes don’t meet mine, but they don’t need to. I feel him see me.
Everything inside me breaks loose.
I bolt.
Heart hammering, legs burning, I spin away from the doorway and sprint back through the dark. My shoulder clips a crate, pain flashing down my arm, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Myboots slip across wet concrete, but I recover and keep moving, breath tearing out of my throat in raw gasps.
Behind me, I hear movement. Footsteps. Shouting. A string of Russian curses cracks through the warehouse like lightning.
They’re coming.
I burst through the corridor I entered from, everything a blur of shapes and shadows. Rain leaks through the broken windows high above, dripping onto my face and mixing with sweat. I hit the dock door at full speed, shove it up with both hands, and dive through the gap.
Outside.
Cold air slams into me, followed by a wall of rain that drenches me instantly. I skid across slick pavement, barely catching myself on the brick wall opposite. The alley’s darker than before, the night settled in deep and low, but I don’t pause.
I run.
Boots pounding through puddles, water splashing up my legs, soaked fabric clinging to my skin. The warehouse looms behind me, empty and enormous. I don’t look back.
I can’t. My lungs scream. My legs ache. My chest is tight with the weight of what I saw—what I shouldn’t have seen.
He shot that man like it meant nothing, like it was routine.
I tear down the alley, take a sharp left toward the main road, nearly slip, catch myself with one hand against a dumpster. My bag bounces hard against my side, soaked and heavy. I think of the box I left behind, the delivery note scribbled in haste.
Useless now. I just need to get away.
Streetlights glow dim in the fog, halos of yellow through the rain. I can see a distant intersection. If I can get there—if I can find someone, anyone, then maybe—
A door slams behind me.
They’re close.
I push harder, forcing my legs to move even when they beg me to stop. The street widens up ahead. I pass a boarded-up laundromat, a liquor store with a blinking OPEN sign, a shuttered diner with half the letters missing from its name.
Then I hear it. A voice. I can’t make out the words, but I hear the fury in them.
I duck between two parked cars, cut through another alley, smaller this time. A rusted fire escape towers above me. I skid, then catch my balance, and keep going.
Each breath tastes like copper. My ribs feel like they’re splitting open, but I don’t stop.
Not until I reach the far end of the alley, where the lights are brighter. I grab the edge of the nearest building, press my back to it, and suck in air like I’m drowning.
Nothing moves.
The silence that follows feels deeper than before. But it’s different now. Charged.
I press a shaking hand to my mouth.
I can still feel the echo of the shot.
The way that man fell.
The way the one with the gun had looked toward me, cold and steady. He’s going to come looking.
