Page 8 of Twisted Embrace

He careened through the streets, weaving through oncoming traffic, driving in excess of the speed limit.

“She’s unconscious,” Joy hissed. “How could you let this happen? You still haven’t answered me.”

I noticed Anthony’s glance in the rearview mirror, a slight look of surprise on his face. No one talked to me that way and survived. I gritted my teeth, constantly scanning the road. Then I pulled my phone into my hand. Letting D’Artagnan know about the incident would be the beginning of a war I’d be forced to wage.

And one I wouldn’t mind.

I’d crush the fuckers who’d dared destroy my sister’s moment of happiness. I’d warned against allowing her to return to the States, my knowledge of how the Bratva worked on both sides of the ocean keeping me on edge. My sister had the new mafia Don wrapped around her finger, insisting she’d be just fine.

“How is the event?” D’Artagnan asked as he answered the phone.

“Dar. We have a situation.”

“What?”

“Lucia has been shot.”

There was no sound on the other end of the line for a few seconds. Then he broke into a rage, roaring as an injured lion would do. “Who?”

“Bratva.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yes, but there’s concern over the baby.”

D’Artagnan was a man filled with the same kind of penchant for violence that I’d been born with. He’d suffered his own share of abuse from his adopted father where mine had been blood. While there was still limited trust between us, I’d accepted the position of his Consigliere months before and I intended on keeping the peace between our blended families.

As well as wipe the streets with Bratva blood.

No one fucked with our family.

“She’s barely breathing,” Joy moaned. “Why. Why?”

Her voice was filled with agony while I only felt fury, the kind that would drive me off the sharp precipice into a murderous rage.

“I’m leaving now. Hunt the fuckers responsible,” Dar commanded.

“Already in the works. I’ll call you with the location and when I know her condition.”

His voice broke, something that never happened. “She will be okay or so fucking help me God every last Russian will die.”

When he ended the call, I took a deep breath. The Bratva had no idea the war they’d just started.

* * *

Joy

Violence.

I wasn’t immune to the concept. I lived in New York, for God’s sake. I’d seen creeps yank older women to the ground to snag a purse. I’d witnessed a murder in an alley I shouldn’t have been walking down in the first place. And I’d almost been accosted outside my own apartment years before.

But this was different.

This was… horrific.

Oh, God. My premonition had come true. No. No!

I had blood covering my hands, specks on my dress. I could only imagine what I looked like. Every muscle ached, my throat still tight from the man who’d almost choked the life out of me. I’d also witnessed seeing half a man’s head being blown off. I should be terrified, but I was angry, furious that the system set in place for likely generations had failed.

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