Page 79 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

At the end of the hallway, Totti makes a hard left, dragging me with him into a room with three computers.

I freeze when I see Peyton there. And I almost start vomiting again when I realize that he’s bleeding from a hole in the back of his head, body twisted on the floor.

To be honest, it’s a little anticlimactic. All the twists and turns and deceptions and betrayals, just for him to end like this—slumped over like a raw side of beef. I can’t say he didn’t deserve it, but still… I never knew the human body had so much blood.

I feel sick.

“Get over there,” Totti prods.

To get to the computer, I’ll have to step over Peyton’s corpse. I shake my head like there’s an award for the speed with which I can say no. “No. Nope. I can’t.”

He huffs out a frustrated sigh and lines up the muzzle of the gun with my temple. “It was not a question. I want my fucking money back.”

“And I want to go home.” This could go back and forth all day and I don’t want to be in this room that long. “I’ll put ten million back now. When I’m somewhere safe, I’ll email you the account number where you’ll find the rest of the money.”

We both know there’s never going to be anywhere safe enough for me to hide. I only hope I can stall long enough for Tomas to show up and handle this. And by “handle,” I mean I hope he puts a bullet between this crazy bastard’s eyes. I’m well aware that makes me a hypocrite. I’m okay with this specific hypocrisy.

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“How do I know you won’t shoot me as soon as I transfer the ten million, then have someone else try to find it?”

Not that they’d be able to.

“My word’s as good as yours.” I do honestly mean that. I’ll give back every penny if he just gets me out of here.

Seconds tick off the clock while he stares at me, and I glare back, heart in V-fib and no one nearby with the paddles to shock me back to life it my ticker calls it quits.

Finally, he nods. “Fine. Half now. Half when you’re safe. But if you double-cross me, there’s nowhere you can run where I won’t find you.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls.” I didn’t realize I was such a nervous chatterer. It’s partly because I really believe he’ll find me. And also because Peyton’s dead, bloodied body is still lying between me and the computer.

I try not to look, try to figure out how to make my body as small as I can so I can squeeze around without touching any part of him, but the room is small, the equipment is big, and Peyton is at an awkward angle.

I suck in a breath. I’m getting out of here. Nothing else matters.

It takes two minutes to transfer the money into his account and for him to get a notification email. I look up at him. “You should probably open a couple accounts, you know? This kind of money all in one place makes for an easy target. Plus, there’s the tax implications. A lot of red flags.”

I’m being serious, but he just points at the door. “Let’s go.”

This time, he doesn’t touch me, but lets me walk past him out the door. In the hallway, I wait for him. I don’t know how to get out of here, and I want some kind of protection. I’ve already made a copy of his files that I sent to myself while I waited for his money to transfer.

He leads me through a supply room into the warehouse part of the building. Crates and boxes are stacked three or four high in neat aisles. I can’t see anyone, but I can hear voices—Russian, semi-angry, loud.

They can kill each other for all I care. I just want to go home. I try to quicken my pace, but Totti stops and holds me back.

I can see the door and the line of light at the bottom. So close. Almost there.

“Stop!”

How a single one-syllable word can sound so decidedly foreign, I don’t understand, but this one does.

Roberto and I turn to the old man who shouted. He’s white-haired. and not in the silver-fox-handsome kind of way. His face is scarred on one side, the skin red and angry like he’s been burned at some point, and he’s twenty-five pounds too heavy. Just a big, angry Russian bear.

“This is the bitch who humiliated my daughter,” the old man snarls.

“I don’t know your daughter.” The only other Russian I know is Tomas. But I have a sneaky suspicion that the daughter in question is Tomas’s fiancée. Was? Is? Shit, I don’t know anything anymore.

I don’t have time to consider it before the old man swings a backhanded slap at me, connecting with my already-cut and not-yet-bandaged cheek.

---