Page 65 of Double or Nothing
“Igor?” I echo, my blood instantly freezing.
The name of the Russian mobster falls heavily in the air between us. I glance over my shoulder and squint, trying to spot him across the crowded room. Why the hell did I allow Natasha to take my glasses?
Damn!
Soon he’s close enough for even me to recognize his imposing figure weaving through the crowd. His large, burly frame towers over the casino patrons, an unmistakable predator on the prowl.
Quickly, I scramble off the stool, not caring about the unfinished game or the trail of half-spent money. Natasha and I exchange a panicked glance before we maneuver away and towards the ornate golden archway that marks the entrance to the ladies’ room.
Natasha springs ahead, her stilettos clicking hurriedly against the marbled floor, while I trail behind, constantly glancing back at the monster that’s stalking us. He is a beast of a man; each stride he takes is two of ours, his thick arms swinging menacingly by his sides.
We burst through the bathroom door and find it empty. The sudden transition from the bustling casino to the muted, white-tiled serenity feels jarring. Natasha rushes to the last stall, and gestures for me to get in.
“Lock it and don’t make a sound,” she breathlessly instructs me.
I duck into the small space and latch the door shut. The walls go down to the tile floor for privacy, making the stall seem smaller, more claustrophobic than ever. Natasha remains outside, presumably to lure Igor away if he follows us in here. I’m left alone with the deafening thud of my heartbeat and the fear coursing through my veins.
It seems like forever, but it’s only a few seconds before I hear the bathroom door swing open. Then I hear Igor’s voice, as cold as the Russian winters. “We finally meet again, Natasha,” he says, the malice dripping from his voice. “Where’s your friend?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Natasha replies, her voice a calculated mix of confusion and innocence.
“Do not play games with me,” he snaps.
I hear the shuffle of feet, the clack of Natasha’s heels running for the door. My mind races, trying to visualize the scene unfolding outside this small cubicle. There’s a sudden, sharp gasp from Natasha, followed by a whimper of pain. “Let me go,” she cries out, clearly struggling with him now.
My heart clenches with terror, my fingers instinctively reaching for my purse. I draw out a tiny canister of pepper spray I always carry with me, though I’ve never used it.
The grating laughter of Igor sends a new wave of panic through me. Where the fuck did he come from? How long has he been stalking us?
I close my eyes, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Gathering every ounce of courage, I quietly swing open the stall door and step out.
He has Natasha pinned against the wall, his hulking figure completely dwarfing her, his hand around her throat. Her eyes are wide with terror, her usual confidence erased by her history with this monstrous man. The thought of what this man has done to her or witnessed being done, sends fury coursing through me.
I rush towards them, aim the tiny canister at his eyes and press down. A jet of pepper spray shoots out, catching him square in the face. He roars in pain and staggers back, releasing Natasha. She squeezes her eyes shut, ducking away from him and the pepper spray.
Temporarily blinded, he thrashes around, trying to find the sink. Seizing the opportunity, I grab Natasha’s hand, pulling her back towards the door. But Igor recovers faster than expected. With a savage growl, he lunges toward us.
He stretches out his hand to grab me, and I scream as his fingers close around my wrist. He pulls me back, my body slamming against his chest, then wraps one arm around my neck and squeezes. Grabbing onto his arm, I try to pry it away from my neck as he squeezes harder.
“You fucking bitch!” he yells. “I knew you were hiding in here. I should’ve killed you on the boat when I had a chance.”
Natasha isn’t giving up, though she’s coughing and choking from the pepper spray. With a sudden surge of strength, she kicks back, her stiletto heel landing squarely into his knee.
He bellows in pain, his grip loosening enough for me to wrench my wrist free. We sprint towards the door. I grab the handle and start to swing it open when Natasha stops me.
“Wait,” she says in a surprisingly steady voice. Her bright blue eyes are hard and cold. She pulls a small switchblade out of her purse.
“Natasha…” I warn.
She cuts me off with a sharp look. “He won’t stop until we’re both dead. We must fight. I can’t run any longer.”
She’s right.
Igor is a merciless hunter. He will keep coming, and running will only delay the inevitable. But it’s one thing to accept that, and another to watch as Natasha steps forward, switchblade in hand, to confront him head on.
His vision is clearing, the effects of the pepper spray wearing off. He sees Natasha approaching, her smaller frame dwarfed by his bulk. But there’s a fire in her that makes him pause. He grins at her, a gruesome, wolfish smile.
The eerie dance of death begins in the claustrophobic confines of the bathroom. Natasha moves with a catlike grace, circling him, who roars and swings his beefy arms in a desperate attempt to catch her. Every time he lunges, she sidesteps, her high heels silent on the white tile.
