Page 80 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

My face explodes in pain and I scream as I go down. He straddles me with a knife. I look for Roberto Totti, who’s gone from villain to my only possible savior in the blink of an eye.

“You disgraced my family,” the bear growls. He pulls a knife from a sheath under his jacket. “For my daughter’s honor …”

I look up at Roberto, begging for his help with my eyes, but he’s receding into the background, emotionless. Apparently, my life isn’t worth the remaining seventeen million dollars.

The old man presses the blade under my chin.

“I’m someone’s daughter, too,” I whimper. I don’t know if he hears me. Even if he does, I doubt he cares.

24

Tomas

It’s taken three days. Long, exhausting days of capturing men who work for Totti, torturing Kuznetsov brigadiers, following the Italians to various warehouses and drop locations.

Until recently, there’s still been no sign of Corrie. No ransom demands. No clues.

But now I have a shitload of intel on their operations since our last hostage wasn’t very good at being tortured. I also have four dead Russians, three dead Italians, and an Italian soldier fairly high up the ranks in their spaghetti-sauce army with one hand, one ear, and eight missing fingers to deal with when we’re through here.

We’re at a warehouse we only discovered because the soldier’s directions led us to it. He didn’t know for sure, but it’s the place he said he would’ve taken her if it was up to him. Totti’s man gave up the address and I watched Peyton, Totti, and Totti’s son—the same kid who stopped at Chik-Fil-A and McCarty’s Books this afternoon—go into this same building earlier.

Now, Leonid Kuznetsov’s black Escalade is sitting by the loading dock.

This is the place. Probably their headquarters or at least a backup.

It’s about forty degrees outside, just cool enough to be comfortable underneath the tactical combat clothes. They’re light. Breathable. Easy to move in for hand-to-hand fighting. And they work with my bulletproof vest.

I glance at Kostya and Petr. They’re dressed all in black, with weapon holsters attached to their belts, and Kostya wears one at his rib cage. Two of the best fighters in the Bratva. Kostya is also a friend, but in a shootout, I want Petr and his guns as close to my side as I can get him. He’s a former Russian special forces soldier and a Bratva legend who carries a gold-plated Ruger my father gave him, and he’s leading a second wave of our men into the building.

We have enough firepower to blow this place up—and we will, as soon as I get Corrie out safely. This building and four others in this cluster of industrial warehouses, along with a city-block- sized abandoned factory where Leonid stores his weapons, a parcel of shipping containers at the harbor, the Kuznetsov safe houses, Leonid’s mansion, and any building that connects to the Totti family or the Kuznetsovs will soon be piles of rubble and dust.

Josef, Ilya, Sergei, and all of the other men in our ranks are at a location strategic to busting into this building. Ilya and Sergei are on the roof, ready to rappel over the side and through the windows on the second-floor office side. The rest of the men are in threes, armed for battle and covering exits. This will be a total annihilation. As soon as Corrie is in the clear.

They’re all waiting for my signal. I’m about to give it…

But then I hear her screaming.

I know it’s her. It’s Corrie.

The sound goes through me, and I turn hot and cold, furious and fearful. Someone’s going to die. I run to the building, flattening my back against the wall beside the door. Kostya slides into the small space against the cinderblock wall next to me. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer but fling the door open. Kostya yells into the microphone embedded in his jacket. “Go! Now!Idti! Idti! Seychas!” Doors bust open, windows break. My men rush into the building from all sides.

But I only see old man Leonid crouched over Corinne, his knife at her throat.

While my men begin the gun battle with all the Italian and Kuznetsov security men, I hold my Glock in front of me and advance on Leonid. “Stop!” I bellow.

I’m ready to blow his fucking head off his shoulders—until a bullet, shot from somewhere behind the old Russian, spins me backward, knocks me off balance, and disorients me. I catch my footing and take another step.

Another bullet flies past me. I don’t see the shooter, but I don’t have to. I aim past Leonid and drop a man hiding just inside the doorway when he pops up to shoot at me again. He gets his shot off then dies for his trouble.

My vest protects my skin, but the pain of a bullet traveling at seventeen-hundred miles an hour that makes a sudden stop inches from my rib cage is enough to slam the breath out of me. And if the first shot didn’t do the job, the second does. Also the third. The final impact feels as if it hit close to my spine. Close enough that one leg goes numb. I don’t have to be a doctor to know that that’s not a good sign.

I fall on my back as Leonid yanks Corrie to her feet and shoves her toward one of his men. The man catches her with his arm around her throat and pulls her backward toward a door that leads deeper inside the building.

She’s struggling, fighting, clawing, kicking. I want to tell her to go limp, let her weight slow him down and save her strength, but I can’t talk yet. As I lean up, a bullet tears through my left shirtsleeve, but I manage to stand just as another rips through my thigh. Fuck! Pain burns up my leg, through my groin, and into my gut.

Corrie screams again, and I roll behind a stack of cartons. My left arm is useless and the agony that’s become my leg is fierce and consistent. But I can’t let them have Corrie.

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