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But if Donnie wants to use me again tomorrow, I’ll gladly make it happen. Because today was a thrill, I’m still trying to believe I actually survived.
That last thought sends a jolt through my body, and I lift my head from its resting place, scanning down the length of my train compartment as I realize I haven’t been paying attention to my surroundings. And my actual physical survival isn’t necessarily a given at this moment in time.
My stomach drops to my toes when I find eyes watching me.
Cold, steady, emotionless eyes.
He’s staring at me from one train compartment down, his brawny shoulders filling the window that he watches me through.
I don’t recognize him as one of the Kelly men. But then, most of the men who work for Keoghan Kelly don’t make regular appearances at Pearl’s. Still, the way he’s watching me leaves little doubt in my mind.
This is why Gleb told me to stay home.
Fuck. Why wasn’t I paying better attention? Now, what do I do?
Heart slamming against my ribs, I stand, my flight instincts kicking into high gear. And as the train’s brakes bring the subway car to a whistling stop, I make a snap decision. The doors hiss open, and I’m through them in a flash.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the watching man turn to find the exit to his own compartment. At the speed he’s going, that last shred of doubt vanishes from my mind.
He’s chasing me.
Springing up the stairs, I take them two at a time, my tired arms half pulling me up by the handrail as I try to outrun him in high heels.
I spare two seconds once I reach the crowded street to pause and get my bearings as I remove my shoes.
Shit. I got off two stops early. That leaves me well over a mile from the Veles house—maybe even two.
I don’t care.
I don’t have time to think.
I run.
6
GLEB
What started out as a routine day has gone completely to shit.
In the alley behind the butchery where I was handling collections, a third hitman comes out of the woodwork. I hiss as he launches a knife at me that grazes my side, calling attention to his arrival. The knife buries itself in the wall behind me, the blade’s edge crimson from where it caught me.
“You’re quick,” the knife thrower observes in his Boston Irish lilt.
But I don’t have time to come up with a snarky reply. I barely have time to register that he’s an Irishman—not Russian, like the other two Kelly hitmen I’m currently fighting—because my brother Gavriil takes advantage of the distraction, launching a mean right hook that connects with my jaw.
I stumble back but manage to regain my footing before my brother Roman can rejoin the fray. He’s scrappy but still young, like Edik, and not too experienced. That made him easier to knock down so I could focus on the wall of muscle in front of me.
Gavriil has lead fists and is not above fighting dirty. So he’s my first priority here.
Lucky for him, this Irishman adds an unknown variable, which will keep me guessing and give Gavriil an advantage beyond the fact that they outnumber me.
“Did Vincent put a bounty on my head or something?” I mock, wiping the blood from my split lip with my sleeve. “I’m honored that he felt the need to send so many of you.”
Gavriil snorts. “You shouldn’t be.”
The Irishman launches another knife, forcing me back toward Roman as I dodge the blade this time. I smirk. The idiot’s providing me with what I need.
A weapon.
