29
Antonio
I didn’t come alone to the party, not that Mikhail and his thugs know that I brought company.
Two of my men are in the trunk. They can pull the lever in the rear to let themselves out when no one is watching.
The moment I drive in through the open gates, there’s a swarm of men with guns surrounding the vehicle.
One guard shouts at me, his gun raised at the side window. “Get out, slowly!”
I smile, pleased at how easily the guards take the bait. I’m a wanted man by the bratva, and Mikhail’s soldiers are all too gullible.
As long as they don’t search the vehicle. But they have me, what they want, and I won’t put up a fight.
“I’m not armed,” I say and keep my hands up so they don’t inadvertently shoot me. They’re the kind of men who shoot first and then clean up the mess after burying the body.
“I don’t care. Get out,” the Russian says. He grunts his answer, his beard thick and his brow tight. He doesn’t appear the least bit pleased to see me, like I’ve ruined the party.
Good.
They have no idea what’s on the agenda. I intend on ruining their day.
I wasn’t sure that I’d make it on time. Aleksandra had made it clear that I should arrive at seven o’clock, but it didn’t take much to hear the whispers of Russian men bragging about a wedding and sending the children off to boarding school.
My children.
Luka, her fiancé, enjoyed his last night of freedom at the club.
But something tells me a man like Luka isn’t going to stop himself from having any woman he wants, married or not.
Why is he marrying Aleksandra?
She’s made it clear that she doesn’t love him, but what does he get out of the arrangement?
I’m yanked from the vehicle and thrown down onto the grass, face first.
I spit out the clump of dirt that finds its way into my mouth. I’m grateful there isn’t snow or ice on the grass.
The Russian pats me down, making sure I’m not carrying a weapon before he hauls me back to my feet and thrusts me inside the front door.
“Aleksandra!” I shout, hoping to garner her attention. I want her to know that I’m here and that the plan is in motion.
“Shut up!” the Russian grabs my hair and yanks my head back. His gun is tucked under my chin.
One of the soldiers hurries up the stairs on a mission if I’ve ever seen one.
Is he securing Aleksandra to ensure I can’t get to her, or retrieving Mikhail?
“On your knees.” The Russian with the gun pushes me back down to the ground.
I’m not a man to kneel, not to the Russians or anyone else, for that matter.
But he forces me onto the wood floor, and my legs buckle. If I end up shot, or worse, dead, I’m of no use to Aleksandra.
“I’ve been waiting for this day,” Mikhail says as his eyes glint under the pendant lighting in the foyer. He stalks down the stairs like a man on a mission.
Is that mission to marry off his sister or murder me? Perhaps he’s pleased that he believes he has the opportunity to do both.