Page 17 of Blood Oath Christmas
Today. Right.
Court.
I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing.What if I mess this up? What if I forget something, or say it wrong? What if they twist my words and make me sound like a liar?The questions batter me faster than I can silence them. My stomach knots so tightly, I think I might be sick.
I picture Vadim’s face, hard and merciless, and the weight of it presses down on me.What if he shows up? Will I be able to testify while he’s watching me?I rub my damp palms against my jeans.
For a flicker of a moment, I wonder if I should have stayed quiet and pretended I saw nothing. But then I see the man’s body crumpling to the ground. All that blood, and the cold expression on Vadim’s face. No—silence would have been its own kind of death. Somehow, I think he would still be after me to make sure I don’t say anything. Staying silent wouldn’t have protected me either.
I draw in a shaky breath and open my eyes, forcing myself upright. “I guess I’ll go take a shower and get ready for court,” I tell the agents, my voice resigned.
The federal courthouseis all steel, glass, and sharp edges that make me feel like I’m walking into a blade. The agents flank me on all sides, moving me quickly through back entrances and service hallways. No public gallery, no reporters, just the echo of our footsteps against polished floors.
Inside the closed courtroom, the air feels heavier, thicker. A judge sits high on the bench, his expression impassive. My knees threaten to buckle as I’m sworn in, my voice catching on the oath. Thankfully, though, only attorneys and federal agents are here. Then the questions begin.
“Tell us what you witnessed on the night of Friday, December fourteenth.”
I force myself to breathe, to anchor myself in the facts. The words scrape out of me, halting at first, then steadier as I go. The alley. The shadows. The gun. The body crumpling to the ground. I don’t let myself think about the blood.
The prosecutor asks clarifying questions. The judge listens, nods, makes notes. When it’s done, I feel wrung out, hollow.
The judge’s voice is calm but final. “This testimony is sufficient. The matter will proceed to trial. A court date is scheduled for January.”
January. My chest tightens. That feels both impossibly far away and far too soon.
The agents guide me out quickly, shielding me from unseen eyes. My legs are shaky, but I keep moving.
Back in the safehouse, Graham sits me down at the little card table. Torres stands by the window, watching the street below.
“There’s something you need to know,” Graham says carefully. “Vadim was picked up this morning.”
Relief spikes in my chest, sharp and fleeting. “So… it’s over?”
Torres turns, his mouth grim. “Not exactly. He posted bail before he even sat down in holding. Less than thirty minutes.”
The relief curdles into dread. “You’re saying he’s already out?”
“Yes,” Graham says. “Apparently, he turned himself in and his attorney was able to get him released on bail.”
I grip the edge of the table, nails digging into the stained material. My stomach lurches. “Then what’s the point of any of this? If he can walk free like nothing happened, why am I risking my life to testify?”
“Because it’s the only way men like him are ever put away,” Torres says quietly.
I shake my head, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
“You can,” Graham says firmly. “You already have.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe someone.
But then I see him.
Out of the corner of my eye, through the half-open doorway to the living room. A man stares back at me. He’s only there for a moment, then he disappears. But there’s something about him that I recognize. Those broad shoulders, his sharp profile, a presence that pulls the air toward him. His stance is solid, protective, a wall between me and the world. His eyes—so green and steady.
I know who he is.
Konstantin.
What is he doing here? My stalker, as Frank likes to call him. Dread washes through me. If he can find me, how long before Vadim does? Konstantin has nothing to do with any of this. He’s just a customer I saw every Friday night. Why is he here, at my safehouse?
