Page 20 of Caught By the Bratva Boss

I manage the drive back to my apartment, and by the time I get there, I’m coated in sweat and have a massive tension headache. The Aston Martin is smooth as fuck, but I’m in no hurry to drive it again. I park it on the street and limp my ass upstairs. Knowing I need to hurry, I grab a bag and throw a bunch of shit in it. Mikhail still has my laptop, but he didn’t take my messenger bag, which was a stupid move on his part. I grab it and leave. My ankle is really screaming at me, and my shoe is starting to feel way too tight, but I grit my teeth and keep going. I only need to walk a block to the hotel. It’s not far, but hiding in plain sight does have its advantages, or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Before I hit the hotel, I take a small detour into my bank. Making my way to one of the women behind the counter, I pull out my safety deposit box key from my messenger bag.

“I need to get into box 994,” I tell her.

“I just need to see some ID.”

I pull it out and slide it over, my face heating up when I see her fighting a laugh at my driver’s license photo. It’s hands down the worst photo ever taken of me, and I die a little every time I see it.

“Give me just a second, and I’ll get someone to help you.” She motions to the small seating area in the middle of the bank, and I make my way over. Each step sends a jolt of pain through my ankle and up my leg. I’m starting to worry that maybe I did break something after all, some tiny foot bone that I’ve never heard of but is extremely vital for walking.

It only takes a few minutes before a middle-aged man in a suit comes over to me, carrying a key of his own.

“Follow me, Ms. Sinclair, and we can get your box opened.”

I follow him, and when he notices my obvious limp, he asks, “Are you okay?”

Smiling, I say, “I’m fine. I just fell off my bike earlier, and I think I must’ve twisted my ankle.”

“You should have a doctor look at that.” He guides me through a set of doors and down the hall to where the safety deposit boxes are located. “They can give you a crutch or something. My wife sprained her ankle once, and she had to stay off of it for days.”

I assure him that I’ll get to the doctor soon, and when we get to number 994, he puts his key in on one side and I do the other. We both turn our keys, unlocking the box. The man gives me a smile and wishes me a speedy recovery before leaving me alone. I’m grateful for the privacy. Once I’m sure he’s gone, I open the box and dump the contents into my bag. I have close to fifty thousand in here, plus several necklaces that I’ve taken but not had time to find buyers for. It’s probably stupid to keep all this here, but it seemed like a safer option than just stashing it in my apartment. If I’d done that, then all this would be in Mikhail’s hands right now.

I shove the empty box back in its place and zip up my bag. Leaving the bank, I cross the small distance to the hotel and walk into the main lobby, trying like hell to draw as little attention to myself as possible. Putting on my best smile, I head to the counter and the beaming redhead behind it.

“Hi, can I get a room for a couple of days?”

“A single room?”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

With her smile still in place, she does some speedy typing and then asks for a credit card and some ID. I hand them over and say, “Here’s my credit card, but I’d like to pay in cash for the room.”

I give her an embarrassed look while tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and add, “I know this is going to sound weird, but is there any way to book this under a different name? My boyfriend and I just had an awful fight, and I just need a break from him, you know?”

I roll my eyes, giving her aguy troubles, am I right?kind of look.

She laughs and asks what name I want it under. I decide on Sara Smith for no other reason except that it’s the first thing that pops in my head and nowhere close to my own name. She assures me that if anyone calls looking for me, my room will show up under Sara’s name and not my real one. I thank her and take my key card, limping to the elevator and more than ready to get off this damn foot.

The room is simple but clean, and the first thing I do is fill the bath. I’m not crazy about taking hotel baths, but I need off this foot, and I figure a soak might be good for it. Peeling off my clothes, I cringe when I see how swollen it is. A bruise is already starting to form, and when I touch it, I wince at how fucking bad it hurts. I might need to sneak in a doctor’s visit before I make my big getaway. I don’t have insurance, which means I’ll have to dip into my travel money to pay for it. I’m guessing with x-rays and whatever else they need to do, it’ll be expensive.

Leaning back with a sigh, I put my foot back in the water, wondering if I should do ice instead. I promise myself I’ll fill the ice bucket later and then rest my head back, remembering how amazing Mikhail’s bathtub had been. When I remember what I did in it, I give an embarrassed groan and take comfort in the fact that at least he didn’t see me. I still have no memory of getting to bed, but I’d been so damn tired, more tired than I’ve ever been, and the whole bath memory gets fuzzy after I fucked myself thinking about him. I must’ve gotten out shortly after and just crawled into bed.

I stay in the bath until the water turns cold before hauling myself out. My ankle is so sore that I can’t tolerate any weight on it, so I’m forced to dry off while sitting on the edge of the tub and then making a very unladylike scramble to the bed by hopping on one foot and using anything I can rest my hands on for support. Wrapped in the towel, I sit on the bed and dig out some fresh clothes. By the time I’m dressed, I’m exhausted again. I lay back only intending to shut my eyes for just a minute, but the next thing I know, there’s a hand clamped against my mouth and a Russian accent in my ear.

“Did you really think you could run from me, little thief?”

My eyes snap open, and when I see Mikhail’s face, I almost think about shutting them again. I thought I’d seen him mad before, but it’s nothing compared to this. Veins are bulging in his temple and neck, and his eyes look completely black. The tight line of his lips doesn’t even come close to giving me the smirky smile I’ve come to associate with him. No, he is full-on pissed right now.

When I try to lift up, he holds me tighter, making it clear I’m not doing a damn thing until he gives me permission to do so. I scream, but it’s a muffled, pitiful sounding thing with his big hand covering half my face. He waits patiently for me to exhaust myself.

“Finished with your tantrum?”

I don’t bother trying to answer.

“You broke out of my house and stole my motherfucking car, Charlie. What the hell were you thinking?”

I doubt he’s really expecting an answer, so I keep quiet.

He leans closer, his face right above mine. “You are mine until I decide to let you go. There is nowhere that you can go where I won’t find you, little thief. Understand?”

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