My attention flickered to the one running into the arena on her chubby legs, wearing a ridiculously bright red dress full of lace and frills that looked out of place here.
“Call a doctor,” she yelled, her hands frantically flying through the air and terror evident in her voice. The girl couldn’t be older than seven.
I felt the breath rush out of my chest. She appeared fragile, almost too small for her age. She shouldn’t be here. It was too dangerous.
Tears streamed down her face, her blonde curls bouncing with each step she took. But it was her eyes that captivated me. Big and golden with hazel specks. She fell down to her knees next to the dead boy, grabbing his cold hand into hers and shaking it desperately.
And all the while, she cried, her soft whimpers filling the deathly still arena that had only seen cruelty and death, nothing like this display of empathy.
Then suddenly The Killer snatched the girl, wrapping his bloodied fingers around her neck.
“Let her go,” Sofia Volkov, the bitch of all bitches, hissed. I hated the woman—her puppet of a husband even more—but I didn’t want the little girl hurt.
The tension in the air was so heavy I felt goosebumps rise on my arms. I didn’t move, my focus remaining glued to the little girl with the most unusual eyes I’d ever seen.
“Nobody move or I’ll snap her neck.” The Killer tightened his grip, flashing his feral smile, while the little girl clawed at his hand. Her ivory skin was turning purple.
Ivan chortled. “You stupid boy. You’re dead and don’t even know it.”
The Killer bared his teeth, and I watched in horror as the scene played out. Why wasn’t anyone saving her?
I hadn’t known men—or women—like this until I’d been forced here. I’d never seen truly evil men inflict so much pain on others. A shudder rippled through my skinny body.
The Killer lifted the girl off the ground while gripping her neck, her black flats dangling in the air as she kicked her legs. Every muscle in my body tightened instinctively. Without moving my eyes from the scene, I shifted to the next pillar so I could sneak up on The Killer from behind.
Sofia Volkov’s eyes turned black, and I wondered if she regretted creating this monster out of a boy. Blood rushed through my ears, the entire arena only background noise. I kept my eyes on the scene, inching closer.
I swallowed, waiting for one of Sofia’s men to do something—anything—but nobody was budging.
I remembered the last time I saw my sister, two years ago. The fear in Aurora’s eyes had stayed with me, and I knew that same fear was now rolling off this little girl.
Before I even understood what was happening, I jumped on The Killer’s back, my arm wrapping around his monstrous shoulders. We all lost balance, falling backward. I grunted from the weight crushing me, but I didn’t release my grip.
He gurgled. The girl whimpered. I scrambled to get the upper hand, and when I did, I squeezed the boy’s neck with everything I had. Seconds ticked by. They felt like hours. His body twitched. Once. Twice. Then he went limp, and I peeled his hands off the little girl.
I took her in my trembling arms and shoved the slumped body to the side.
His blood didn’t soak the dirt, but my sins did.
The sudden onslaught of noise finally hit me. The crowd pulsed as one, their eyes locked on me with disbelief. Then came the screams and cries of a little girl.
“Shhh,” I murmured softly, in the same way I used to calm my baby sister down, as I rubbed her back gently.
I was in so much trouble. They’d punish me for this. I clenched my jaw, preparing for the consequences that were sure to come.
I didn’t regret it. Her little body no longer shook with fear. Instead, it clung to me like I was her life raft.
Sofia Volkov stepped forward, her eyes locked on mine. “Well, looks like I found a bodyguard and companion for my girls.”
Chapter 11Liana, Present
The next night, I watched the scene unfold in front of me while dread weighed heavily in the pit of my stomach, threatening to buckle my knees.
Yesterday, I sat at a table in downtown D.C. with these men. Today, I hid in the shadows. My mother loved to parade me around dinners and social events with these freaks, but when it was time for the deals and transactions to happen, she left me out.
I never complained. It worked for me. It gave me the freedom to do what I needed to do.
Like standing outside an ominous looking, abandoned building under the blanket of night. The sound of a ship horn came from the murky waters, signaling there was life around us. The wrought-iron gates surrounded the deserted construction area. Long shadows lurked in every corner, waiting to come out and adding to the creepy vibe of the place.
The wind howled, reflecting the storm raging inside me. The skies cracked with thunder as two of Cortes’s men stood in the middle of the abandoned warehouse in Canton. My heart pounded in my chest, cracking my ribs.
My mother stood there, indifferent and wrapped in her fur coat as she inspected her latest crop of goods. It was a lucrative venture that came with mortal consequences and stained even the most troubled soul.
I watched their exchange—two enemies who had a penchant for destroying people’s lives. The Brazilian cartel. The Russian mafia. Two leaders who were willing to tolerate freezing temperatures, shivering under their heavy coats.
My mother remained a silent observer, her lips curved into her signature humorless smile.
The men stood by their leaders and kept their hands readied on their guns. They discussed business in hushed tones, making it so I was unable to hear the details. Weapons and alcohol were traded.
I didn’t move—knowing weapons and alcohol were only the face of the operation. A disguise for what was to come. It was their next trade that kept me here, sticking to the shadows. These situations weren’t a novelty to me. I had seen this exchange plenty of times over the past decade. I should be used to it by now.
I wasn’t.
The doors of the shipping container opened and I inhaled a sharp breath. At least a dozen young girls lay there, unconscious, unaware of the dangerous men—and woman—standing mere feet from them.
The cold air whipped at my face, but I couldn’t feel it. I’d weathered Siberian temperatures. I was used to the evil of humans. I had thick skin. I’d lived through loss. My twin. Ghosts I couldn’t remember.
A life as Sofia Volkov’s daughter had prepared me for a lot of things—crime, cruel men, manipulation. But never this sight.
Shaking off the distracting thoughts, I squared my shoulders. The cold metal pressed against my waistband, the knife digging into my thigh, which I found reassuring. Dressed in fleece leggings and a warm sweater, all black, I waited for one of the two most lethal mobsters of the underworld to leave.
Unaware of my presence in the shadows, the leaders exchanged a few more words and shook hands. And then, they headed away from the docks. My mother’s men left along with her. Perez took only his personal bodyguards, leaving two behind to handle the cargo.
“Showtime,” I whispered as I made my way through the construction site, keeping my steps silent and light. Cortes’s men were too busy to notice me as I approached them from behind like a ghost in the night.
My heart clenched as I watched one of them cop a feel of a young, unconscious woman. The stifling sensation of hatred and despair surged through my veins. The failings of man floored me every time I witnessed it.
I gave my head another shake, refusing to be distracted by emotions. Those served me nothing. Instead, I focused on saving these women. If I was going to do this right, I needed to have a clear mind.
As I stalked toward them, I reached for my knife and pulled it out of its holster. I always preferred it over my gun. It got me in and out with less chance of detection.
By the time I made it to them, the icy wind pinched my cheeks. I inhaled a deep breath, every muscle in my body tense.