Page 2 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

“It really, really isn’t the same thing,” I tell him. “There’s an emergency room ten blocks west if you need a doctor.”

I’m scanning the room for other weapon choices and coming up woefully short. So far, a tennis ball is topping the list.

I might be in quite a bit of trouble.

“I don’t want a doctor,” he says. “I want you.” His words are spoken with a steely calm that sends awareness buzzing into my limbs.

I take a step back, fear clotting in my throat. “Are you with the Albanians?” I ask in a timid voice I hardly recognize. “Because I don’t want any of your bullshit mob drama coming into my clinic.”

Fuck.I shouldn’t have said that.

I buried those demons a long time ago. Those secrets. Those skeletons in my closet.

But the question came out of me totally unbidden. As if I’ve always known, deep in my heart, that the past I thought I fled wasn’t quite done with me yet.

That it was simply hibernating.

Waiting until the right time to come ruin my life again.

For a long time after everything happened, I carried a knife in my purse.A lot of good that’ll do you against armed mobsters,my best friend Brigitte always said.

Eventually, realizing she was right, I got rid of it. I never had it in me to carry a gun. Besides—after a while, it all seemed unnecessary. My past had stayed in the rearview mirror, where it belonged.

At least, I thought it did.

Now, I’m not so sure.

The man barks out a laugh. I can’t tell if he’s surprised or offended.

“Well?” I demand. “Are you?”

He shakes his head. “You ask too many questions. Questions that could get you killed.”

Then he rolls up his shirt sleeve and I see the reason for his sudden appearance.

Blood is caked across the rippling muscles of his forearm. When he moves, fresh blood spurts out. He scowls at the pain.

I don’t have to look any closer to know what it is: a gunshot wound.

“You’ve been shot!” I gasp. I wince as soon as I say it. What an idiotic comment. As if he wasn’t aware.

“Funny you should point that out,” he drawls. “I noticed it as well. Mind doing something about it?”

I still can’t see much of his face beneath the hood. Not enough to pick him out of a crowd, at least.

But those dark, glittering eyes… Those haven’t left my face for a second.

I swallow past an obnoxiously large knot in my throat. “I already told you, I’m a vet. If you need a doctor, there’s an emergency room—”

There’s a quick flash of movement. And then he’s holding a gun, pointed at me.

“I said,‘Mind doing something about that?’” he repeats. Any hint of a question is gone from his voice.

Fuck me.Looks like my work day isn’t over after all.

I stare for a moment longer into the darkness where his face is hidden. I don’t know what I’m looking for. But whatever it is, I don’t find it.

Plus, that gun is very hard to ignore.

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