Page 22 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

Does she even watch TV? All those things on the news and in the crime shows about dirty cops working for organized crime—true. All true. And the Italians are ass-deep in the city’s PD.

“If you want to set off some Italian Mafia radar, sure. I’ll turn the car around, drop you at the police department, and by the time they’re finished writing your name on the incident report, you’ll be dead.” I tap the brakes. “But alright. If that’s what you want.”

“What should I do?”

She’s resigned. It’s how I normally like my captives. The only thing better is bound and gagged.

“Lie low. Let me figure out if they have you in their sights.”

I don’t know if she somehow managed to get herself connected to the Italian Mafia or if her new husband has managed to drag her into a mess she doesn’t really know about. I don’t even know if she’s maybe some kind of Italian plant. And that’s why she’s not getting anywhere out of my sight.

“I’ve been on my own since you walked away. And far as I could see, you were the only one who come to kill somebody tonight. The other guys were looking for money.”

“So, you want to go to the police?” I pull the car to the side of the road. Sometimes the only way to go is to call a bluff and wait.

She doesn’t answer. Just looks out the window and pouts.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

* * *

I drive to the apartment. She walks in behind me. I’m at the point where, if she runs, I know I can find her before she gets far. If I don’t, the Italians will. It bothers me but not enough to let her know she’s truly a prisoner just yet.

When we’re inside my place and she’s finished looking at the novels on the bookcase, the pictures of me and Mom from grade school and high school, the stereo system she’s investigating like it’s not really a stereo system but some sort of communication device, and tested the sofa for its comfort, she turns to me.

“I want to take a shower.”

There are three rooms. An open-space living room/kitchen combo is the biggest part of the twenty-five hundred square foot unit, along with a handful of bathrooms and bedrooms. There’s a gym with a sauna and steam room and a library with a vault and gun safe hidden inside a wall.

I point to the door. “Through there. Towels are in the cabinet.”

She nods and sighs. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

She wants my shirt. Last time I saw her, ten years ago, she was wearing my shirt.

My gut twitches and I put a hand over my stomach. It’s hunger. Definitely.

“I’ll put something out. Just go out the other door to the bedroom and I’ll put them on the bed.” I clear my throat. It’s the fucking shirt thing that’s screwing with my head. A goddamned piece of cotton throwing me off.

I turn to the kitchen, right as my phone starts ringing. I silently thank God that Aleksey has chosen this minute to interrupt.

I wait until I hear the bathroom door shut and the lock click before I answer my buzzing phone.

“Alek.”

“PD found the bodies and there’s a witness. They got to him before I could.”

That fucking weasel Hogan. He’d better keep his mouth shut. “Shit. He’s got a broken jaw though, so at least he won’t be saying much for a little while.”

I tense up my fist. I should’ve broken more than his jaw. I probably should have killed him, to be honest. God knows the bastard deserved it with what he was trying to do to Corrie. But I try never to hurt people who aren’t in the game. It’s one of the rules of the Bratva.

I may have bent the rule by pistol-whipping that sick fucker a few times. I left him alive though. So as far as I’m concerned, I didn’t do anything wrong.

Alek chuckles. “He’s barely stopped crying long enough to tell them his name. And since you didn’t leave any prints, we should be in the clear. I got the video guy to wipe the footage of you entering and leaving.”

“Good.” My fist relaxes.

“Funnily enough, an old friend of yours is registered into the room you hit.”

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