Page 5 of The Bratva's Innocent Pregnant Bride
I had work to do, but my fingers didn’t seem to want to function. I kept making errors, constantly checking my phonefor a reply, a call, or at least a sign that my message had been read. Nothing.
Was I being ridiculous? I hated Axon and most of the people who worked there were awful, but were they murderers? Unable to concentrate, I looked at the other files Mr. Caraggio had left open on his screen after flying out of the office like… like his life was in danger.
None of it looked important or incriminating, but I had no idea what I was looking for. Picking up my phone again, instead of staring at the unread message, I clicked around Mel’s account, finding someone who looked like one of his good friends. On that person’s account, the most recent post was asking for information about Mel.
Holy crap. He really was missing, wasn’t he? I messaged that guy, hunched over in Mr. Caraggio’s plush office chair. Instead of a reply, he called, almost immediately after he read my message. I answered.
“Who is this?” he demanded, not angry, more desperate.
I only called myself The Number Girl on the app, so there was no way I was giving my name, but I told him I knew Jordan and had just noticed his post making it seem like he was missing. “I was hoping to see if you knew anything else?” I asked.
“Have you spoken to him since November twenty-first?”
“No, I haven’t, sorry. I guess I’m a little worried after seeing your post.”
“We’re very worried,” he said. “The police have no leads and think he just took off on his own, but that’s not like him. He’s dedicated to his job, and there was this girl he was interested in asking out. He didn’t just up and leave town without telling anyone.”
Well now I felt awful, but he really was kind of a creep. Not to the level I wished him dead, though. I looked at the list again, Mel’s name last, no check mark next to it. Jordan’s name higher up, a check mark next to his, and news that he’d just been found dead. Murdered.
“What’s going on here? Why are you in this office?”
I jumped, Erica’s harsh voice cutting through the fog gathering in my mind. I watched her eyes make a beeline to the list, front and center on the desk, my hand resting next to it. I scuttled another sheet of paper over it as she shoved into the small office on her totteringly high heels.
I ended the call with Mel’s friend, shoving my phone in my pocket, apologizing profusely for being on a personal call and explaining Mr. Caraggio’s request that I finish his report. Her eyes never left the list, now covered, but seeming to still blaze through the note on top of it like it was on fire.
She leaned over and grabbed the entire sheaf of papers. “See me in my office in five minutes.”
I gulped out something that might have been a word. It was good enough for her, because she turned on her heel and left me alone in the room. Mel’s friend was calling me back but I silenced my phone, heading for the elevator instead of Erica’s office.
I needed air, and didn’t care if Erica snapped at me for being a few minutes late to her lecture. The closer I got to the lobby, the more my imagination kicked into overdrive, and I was nowhere near as inclined to wild stories as Leslie was. Erica had the list. She knew I’d seen it. Maybe she knew what it was, if it was anything. But she’d been pissed, and not just because I was on the phone.
Those names were burned into my brain, but I hurriedly typed them into a note on my phone anyway, bursting out of the elevator and heading straight outside. My car was in the lot next door and I made my way up that elevator to its spot, thinking I heard high heeled footsteps chasing me.
I drove a few blocks and parked in front of a busy fast food restaurant, feeling somewhat safer now that I was out of the building. Name by name I went through all the ex-employees on the list, searching for any mention of them in the news or trying to find them on social media. It wasn’t good. Out of the four I was able to find on socials, they were all listed as missing by their friends or family members. There was a remembrance vigil scheduled for Jordan. He had a damn check mark next to his name.
This was no longer idle gossip or a strange coincidence. Something very bad was going on at Axon Financial.
I’d been gone more than a half an hour at that point and Erica was probably furious enough to fire me, but I knew I was never setting foot back in that building again. Pulling out into traffic, I headed home, not sure that was the safest place to be, either, since HR had my personal information. Maybe I should go to a friend’s house, but what if I was being followed? Should I check into a hotel?
Someone honked at me and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was just an angry driver, but now my heart was thumping again, wondering if someone was really following me. I didn’t even want to be in LA anymore, but where the heck was I supposed to go?
Chapter 3 - Daniil
Back in LA, I got back to work on trying to figure out what was going on with the Collective, the latest enemy threatening everything my American cousins had been working to build for years. Mat, Rurik and I, along with Masha and her sister Lilia had come over for a visit from Moscow about a year ago. We’d always loved American culture, and when we saw that we could be useful, we decided to stay.
My own organization in Moscow, as well as Mat’s territory, was being run by our father, who encouraged us to help out over here, along with possibly setting up our own businesses. We were so well established in Russia that no one dared mess with us too much, until the Collective started rearing their many, ugly heads, both over there, and in LA. I was sick of it, and thought my cousins were, too, but once I returned, everyone was obsessed with getting ready for the big family holiday in Aspen.
“What the hell?” I asked Aleks, not convinced this was his idea.
“We need a break,” he said. “It’s Christmas time, things are quiet. Why not?”
Aleks was the eldest of all the cousins in our big family, and he was the leader of the American faction, so he should have already known why not. I was about to lay it all out when his daughter ran into the room, throwing her arms around his neck. “Who are you talking to, Papa?” she asked, peering under his arm at the screen. I waved at her and she squealed, scrambling up onto Aleks’s lap.
“Privet, Alina,” I said.
She answered my greeting in Russian then was too excited to continue in her second language, a stream ofinformation and questions flowing out of her. “Did you know there’s going to be snow? And ice skating right in front of where we’re staying? I got a new hat and mittens and—”
“You need to take her to Moscow in the winter instead of the summer, Aleks,” I interrupted. “She wouldn’t be so excited about snow.”
