Page 43 of Bratva Baby

I look down at that big, veined, and familiar hand. It can hold a gun, break a man’s wrist, or make me come hard enough to bite a pillow. My whole body throbs with memory. My whole mind rebels.

He sees where I’m looking and smirks. “Dangerous train of thought, Sofiya.”

“Shut up.”

His mouth curves again. “You were always prettier when you were angry.”

I look away fast and focus on the glass. Budapest outside is all intersections and dirty light and too many chances to be seen. The front seat man says something under his breath. The driver answers in Hungarian.

Anton’s hand leaves my knee. The loss of it irritates me more than it should.

“What?” I ask.

No one answers right away.

Then the front seat man twists halfway around and looks at Anton. “We’ve got a problem.”

Anton looks through the rear window once. His whole body changes. Heat gone. Amusement gone. He leans forward, one hand braced on the back of the front seat.

“What did you see?”

“Two cars, maybe three. One’s familiar.”

Anton’s voice goes flat. “How familiar?”

The man’s gaze cuts to me briefly, then back to him. “Maks’s side. I know one of the drivers.”

Everything inside me drops. Anton turns to the driver. “Lose the cleaner route.”

“We’ll burn time.”

“Do it anyway.”

The car jerks hard right, throwing me against him. His arm comes around me on instinct, one hand bracing my shoulder, his mouth near my temple as the sedan tears off the path he planned and into something messier.

“Head down,” he says, and this time, I do it.

14

SOFIYA

The driver throws the car off the cleaner route and onto a narrower road lined with wet fields and black trees, and I brace one hand against the seat in front of me while Anton braces the other one against me like I’m something he can hold in place by force of habit alone.

“Keep your head down,” he grits out.

I do my best to not show how panicked I am. “I’m trying.”

He spares a glance my way. “That wasn’t criticism.”

I frown at him. “Everything out of your mouth sounds like criticism.”

He glances at me, and even now, even with the car flying down a road I don’t know and men behind us who very likely want me dragged home breathing or not, there’s a flash of amusement in his face that makes me want to hit him and kiss him both.

The front passenger twists around in his seat. “They’re gaining.”

“Which car?” Anton asks.

“The darker one. I know that driver.”