Page 99 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

The driver takes off wordlessly, merging into traffic and navigating the city streets. A few times, he glances down at me and the car jerks slightly. As if he’s surprised each time at the sight of me and the gun.

“Have you been drinking, too?” Taras mumbles. “Drive the fucking car straight.”

“Sorry,” the driver says, his voice clipped.

I wave the gun, reminding him what’s at stake.

After a few minutes, Taras sighs loudly. “Have you talked to anyone at the house?”

“No one,” the driver says. “Not since we left.”

“I wonder how that bitch is doing.” Taras lets out a humorless laugh. “God, if I’d known what I was going to endure tonight, I would have had more fun with her before beating her to shit. Once they’re beaten, the sex isn’t nearly as good, you know.”

My finger hovers over the trigger, aching to rise up and shoot Taras between his bloodshot eyes. He deserves that and so much more. But I quash down my rage, deciding instead to save it for later.

He’ll get what he deserves when the time is right.

* * *

As we get to the edge of the city, the streetlights become fewer and farther between. Taras must live in a gated community.

The driver turns into a long driveway and stops. “Should I get your door, sir?”

“I can get my own fucking door,” Taras snarls, fighting with the handle for a second before the door opens. He gets out and slams the door behind him.

When the driver reaches to throw the car into park, I pull myself back up into the front seat. “Pull into the garage,” I order.

“I don’t park in the garage,” he balks.

“Today, you do.”

If I accost Taras in the driveway, there’s a chance I’ll never get into the house. I have to surprise him inside. Pulling the car into the garage is the only way I can assure I get in without being spotted first.

The driver glances nervously towards the house and then follows the curve of the driveway further down. He hits a garage opener clipped to the sun shade. I hear the mechanical workings of the door lifting up.

The garage is wide, large enough for half a dozen cars. There’s a door to my right that looks like it leads into the main house.

I climb out of the car and stretch out my legs. “Make yourself scarce, unless you want to be involved in this,” I tell the driver.

He eyes me for one second, as if he’s considering trying to intervene on his boss’s behalf.

“Out of pure courtesy, I’m giving you this chance to run,” I say to him acidly. “If I were you, I’d take it.”

One look at the murder written in my face and he knows I mean what I’m saying. He turns and flees into the night.

I slip into the main house, gun still held at the ready. A short hallway leads me to a kitchen. The room is dark, but I can make out the marble countertops and stainless steel appliances from the glow of the neon clock on the wall.

Everything is silent.

Everything is still.

Until a gunshot pierces the night like a metallic scream.

For a second, I think it’s coming from behind me. Maybe the driver wasn’t as cowardly as I thought. Maybe he came back. Maybe he’s shooting at me.

I whirl around—but the shot didn’t come from back there.

It came from inside the house.

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