Page 17 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“It felt…” I hesitate, my pulse picking up again. “Rough,” I admit, an unfamiliar heat curling low in my stomach. “But I liked it.”

Elodie’s concern melts into a delighted grin, and she reaches across the table to pinch my arm. “You might have been a little sex kitten,” she teases. “Don’t worry. We’ll get your groove back when you’re ready.”

I scoff, doubting it.

Together we stand, tossing our napkins and empty cups into the trash. The sun has shifted in the sky while we ate the ice cream. It feels warmer, the air heavier as midday approaches.

We walk side by side toward the parking lot, the pavement warm beneath my flip-flops.

“I’m parked in the east Marlowe lot,” Elodie tells me, pointing that way.

I see her red SUV a few rows down. She drives us everywhere. I never learned to drive after that accident. I don’t even know if I had a license to begin with. But I’m still prone to anxiety attacks, so driving right now is off the table for me.

I’m halfway through asking my cousin something about the gyno appointment, about what to expect while being examined, when my world changes.

It’s like glass shattering in slow motion.

Tires skid and a black SUV comes up beside us. The rear passenger door flies open and cool air spills out. Next, men are everywhere. They’ve got on black masks, dark clothing, and they’re carrying long guns.

Arizona is an open carry state. I’ve seen these. But why are they surrounding us?

“What the hell is this?” my cousin says, pushing me behind her.

“Elodie—” I start, but my voice dies in my throat as one of the men steps right in front of us, his rifle angled at her head.

Oh no. Her story. The mafia.

“Don’t scream,” a tall, bulky man in front of us says, his voice low and controlled. “And do not run.”

My body locks, every muscle going rigid. My heart slams so hard in my chest it feels like it might crack my ribs.

Elodie pulls me against her back. “What do you want, fuckface?” she hisses at the men.

The taller one tilts his head. “I want your little friend there.”

What little friend? Wait. Me?

Next, a set of hands grabs me from behind, rough and unyielding. I reach for Elodie and catch her purse, dragging her with us.

“Not you,” the man grabbing me orders her. “Walk away.”

The scent of leather and musky cologne fills my nose, strong and suffocating.

“Not a chance,” Elodie argues. “This is my cousin. You’re not taking her.”

“We are taking her,” the second man says, his voice gravelly and lethal.

Even cold and dangerous, I know that voice. I think I do. But the only sound I hear now is the rush of blood in my ears.

Elodie’s protest fails. The man with the gravelly voice drags me toward the open SUV. But my cousin doesn’t let go of me.

The SUV’s interior is dark and cavernous, like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.

“We are not getting in this thing.” Elodie resists one more time.

The two men look at each other, then sigh, right before they pounce. The gravelly man grabs me, the tall man grabs her.

“Get your hands off her!” Elodie snaps, twisting against the grip on her arms. “Do you know who you’re⁠—”