Page 8 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
It would likely be easy for me to put leads out to find her, but I can’t. I need to get her out of my head so I can focus.
Tracking her down would only make it worse. This way, I’m being responsible, even if it has me feeling strung out.
Besides, she’s innocent and doesn’t need to brush shoulders with my world more than she already has. It’s better for both of us if she stays away and we go back to our normallives. It’s a painful endeavor after already getting a taste of her, but it’s necessary.
Still, I can’t get over how she vanished before I woke up, leaving no number and no trail.
I only have a name, and despite how badly I don’t want to, I’m clinging to it.
It’s ridiculous, given how I’ve had my fair share of lays, but none of them felt like her, and I can’t stop thinking about her. One night was all it took to haunt me, even weeks later.
My phone lights up and vibrates against the desk, pulling me out of my infuriating thoughts. I jolt and then reach for it, finding Nikolai’s contact on the screen.
Grabbing it, I accept the call and put the phone to my ear.
I don’t even get the chance to say a word before he murmurs, “We have a problem.”
My brows furrow. “Is it Maxim?”
“No, not this time. But it’s still important.”
I sit up in my chair and murmur, “Go on.”
Nikolai lets go of a breath and begins, his tone clipped. “We found a rat. Someone close enough to gain important information to feed the Nikolaevs. He was slick about it and covered his tracks well until he didn’t.”
I clench my jaw, feeling the heat rise in me. “And?”
“We handled it. Tracked him down, took him into an alleyway, and when he wouldn’t talk, it was game over. We made it look like a random attack, but it wasn’t clean.”
My eyes narrow while I focus on nothing in particular. “What do you mean?”
He sighs again. “There was a witness.”
Silence lingers for a beat while I let that sink in, and I stand instinctively. In most situations, that’s the last thing we want. “What happened?”
“We thought the spot was cleared, but the girl came out of nowhere. She tried to call the cops, but I stopped her and took her phone.”
“Did she see everything?” I ask, aimlessly pacing.
“She saw enough, and she knows our name.”
Forcing out a breath, I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a throb in my temples. “Jesus Christ…”
Bodies can be cleared and buried, but a living witness is something completely different. Especially when it’s a woman.
We might be ruthless in our work, but we have a code, and that code involves not harming women or children wherever possible. It sometimes makes situations stickier, but even in our world, a moral compass needs to be established.
Despite the anger coursing through me, I pause my movements and scrub a hand down my face. “Who is she?”
“Not sure. She’s young—a student, maybe. I’m assuming she came from that med school, but I didn’t grab her ID. She’s scared enough, I didn’t want to freak her out more.”
“How thoughtful of you,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief. “What did you do with her then?”
“I brought her in. She’s held up in the main warehouse on the East end. I figured you’d want to see for yourself.”
My brows pinch together again. “Why did you figure that?”
There’s a touch of knowing in his tone, fully observing himself of responsibility. “So, you’d be the one to decide what the hell to do with her.”
