Page 42 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

“Who put it there?” But she doesn’t answer. She’s back in her zone.

Every few minutes, she lifts her head, frowns, then types furiously. Sometimes she mutters something incoherent. Other times, she gives a slight head shake before she puts her fingers down and begins hammering away at the keys again.

I have no idea what she’s found or what it means, but she’s refusing to believe it. The head shakes, the angry grumbling, the way she’s glaring at the screen, making it go blank and bringing it back says all I need to know.

After about the twentieth time, she closes the computer and turns to me. “I have to go. There’s something I have to clear up at the office. Then I’ll be back to work on this.”

Because I have no choice and because I have men following her who will tell me if she tries to lose them, I nod. No matter how much I wish I could, I can’t just keep her here indefinitely.

“Okay.”

“But I want proof these businesses are legit.”

In response, I pull out a stack of files from a locked drawer in the file cabinet. She walks to the table to stand beside me as I flip open the first folder.

“This is Demetri Turgenev. He owns a bakery. Bestpryanikon the East Coast.”

Second folder. “This is Elena Ivanov. She runs the Café Dobryvnya. She’s barely making enough for payroll, and one night closed, or one doubled delivery will put an end to her business.”

The third one doesn’t have a picture because Vlad Volstov is paranoid and is sure Stalin is alive and after him. “This is Vlad. When he opens his dry-cleaning shop every morning, he brings coffee and food to the homeless people who live in the alley behind his shop.”

When I go to open another file, she covers my hand. “Fine. I get what you’re saying.”

I wait for more, but instead of speaking, she walks to the door.

“I need to go.”

“I’ll take you.”

When we walk out, I see the car first. Long. Black. Tinted. Not unlike one of my own, but still so different and out of place.

My stomach plummets. I feel for the semiautomatic I usually wear at all times, but I left it in the house, on the desk.

I only have a split second to pull Corrie down, to cover my body with hers, before the shots ring out.

A line of shots sprays over us. I can’t do anything but cover her and wait for the car to drive away. Or to kill us both. Beneath me, she’s screaming, fighting to get away, but I can’t let her go. I can’t risk her safety.

I hold her, wishing I had magic words to calm her, but she’s writhing and wiggling. My arms tighten around her as more shots come toward us.

Then, searing pain pierces my side and I can’t breathe. Can’t move.

They fucking shot me.

13

Corinne

His body is limp. Deadweight on top of me. But the shooting’s stopped and the car it came from is screeching away. At least there’s that.

I open my eyes. Oh God. This can’t be happening now. Not when we’ve only just found each other again.

I should push him off so I can check his wound.

But when I gaze into his face, his eyes are open and he’s… smiling.

Smiling?

The strength to shove him away is easy to summon. “Get off me.” I don’t know whether to be mad that he fooled me or mad that I fell for it, mad that I almost admitted to one or both of us that I might like him more than I want to believe or want him to know, or relieved he isn’t dead and I won’t spend my last minutes of life crushed under his bulk. Although as far as ways to go, there are worse.

---