I scrub a hand down the front of my face. “Don’t flatter yourself, Patty.”
“So now what?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Vigo’s blade-torn neck.
“We get the fuck out of here.”
“Great, how the fuck is Conor not gonna be fingered for this, especially if he’s already on Vigo’s shit list?” Patty groans.
I hear a soft whimper from a corner and I step farther into the room, peering into the shadows. “Who the fuck is there?” I growl, pointing my gun into the empty space where the sound pricked my ears.
“P-Please,” a heavy female Russian accent responds in a quivering voice. “Don’t hurt me. I am innocent! I need help!”
I toss a glance at Patrick over my shoulder. “Cover me,” I mouth to him before creeping closer to the voice.
“Come out,” I say gruffly. “Or I start shooting.”
A rustling sound follows as the shadow morphs into a body…a fucking incredible one, not that I’m paying close attention to that fact. We’re on borrowed time, and who knows for how long it’s gonna last?
A girl who looks to be in her early twenties inches toward me, teetering on heels she probably has no business even wearing. My throat tightens. Is she one of Vigo’s girls? An innocent victim whose life he stole away?
He’s lucky he’s dead already.
“Please help me get out of here,” she cries. “He almost…he started to…” She breaks down again, choking on a sob as she recounts her story. “He told me I’d have a good job and make lots of money, but then…then…” She starts to sink back onto the floor again, but the clock is ticking and our window is closing fast.
I hold out a hand to her, and she steps over his body, her shoulders quaking as the tears stream down her face once again. Her eyeliner is smudged under her brown eyes and her dark hair is matted to her face.
But she’s alive.
Still, even though she looks like a hot mess right now, I don’t lower the gun. The reality is she probably just narrowly escaped being sold into some sex trafficking ring, but I don’t like to take unnecessary chances.
“Put up your hands,” I say as she moves closer to me.
She recoils. “I just told you that I’m—”
“Yeah, innocent. I heard you the first time. Put up your hands. I don’t have all night, sweetheart.”
The girl slowly puts up her hands, her confused gaze traveling from me to Patrick and then back again.
So I quickly frisk her, ignoring the way her curves feel under the pads of my fingertips because above all else. I’m a goddamn hitman. Eliminating risk is a big part of my job, and until I can prove otherwise, that’s exactly what she is.
Hot as fuck, but still a risk.
Once my hands have completed their task and no weapons are found, I grasp her hand and pull her close. “I don’t know who you are, but if you wanna live, you’ll keep quiet and run fast. Got it?”
“You can help me get out of here?” Tears pool in her eyes, but there is a flicker of hope in the depths. “You can save me?”
I nod, pulling her close, her fresh floral scent wafting under my nostrils. I drink it in, unable to help myself, and for a split second it clouds my mind.
I grit my teeth. Assassins don’t get sidetracked by perfume, dammit!
I nod toward Patrick. “Go. I’ve got your back. We have to get the hell outta here before someone wanders back here to find Vigo.”
“Wait, I need my bag!” She grabs a small, beaded handbag and I grab her wrist, dragging her out of the office. I don’t bother to check it. Any good assassin would have a weapon on her person. You never know when your purse might get lost or stolen or confiscated by an enemy.
We tear down the hallway, searching for the entrance to the casino floor since that’s where the staircase is located. I pull the girl behind me, checking constantly to make sure there is nobody skulking around behind us, ready to take us out.
Patrick rounds a corner and a shot explodes into the air. I back the girl against the wall, covering her with my body as Patrick fires off a couple of retaliatory shots. A loud thud confirms that he hit something, which is good. Of course, it would be better if there was only one person shooting at us.
I clench the gun in my hand, sliding against the wall to shield the girl when another shot sails past me and lodges itself into the wall. I twist around and fire two shots into the head of the guy who crept up behind us. I throw open the door to the staircase and shove the girl in front of me. She clambers up the steps, practically tripping over her feet to escape the dungeon where she’d been trapped only minutes earlier.
“Patty!” I hiss. “Now!”
He darts across the hallway and disappears into the stairwell with me right behind him.
Jesus Christ, what in the hell did we walk into and manage to escape?
Vigo Kosolov is dead.
The powerful Russian mafia brigadier is lying on the floor with a knife sticking out of his throat.
I should feel good about the fact that the piece of shit is in hell where he belongs.
But there are too many nagging questions eating away at my brain right now to feel like we dodged a bullet.
And the biggest one is poured into a tight red dress a few steps ahead of me.
Chapter Five
Anya
I scramble up the stairs headed toward the restaurant, not bothering to look back at the two guys who pulled me out of that room.
I don’t need them.
I’m perfectly capable of executing my own escape plan.
I didn’t intend to cower in a corner of that room like some panicked little bitch who’d just witnessed a murder, but in the end, it worked out in my favor.
An easy out if someone happened to come into the room to check on things. They’d have never expected me to jump out and snap their neck, which I most certainly would have done.
It was a smart move to leave my knife planted in Vigo’s throat…once I wiped off the fingerprints. It gives the perception that I am helpless, sans weapon.
I’m not.
Besides, you just never know when you’re going to be frisked by a gorgeous yet mysterious stranger with a gun.
I know from past experience that Tatiana has a hidden exit that doesn’t require you to go through the restaurant. It’s usually locked, but tonight I happen to have stolen the key from Vigo’s jacket after butchering him. I tucked it into my bra for safekeeping.
When I get to the top of the stairs, I swivel around, popping my eyes open wide like a deer in headlights, really playing up the role of damsel in distress. The guys totally eat it up and they flank me on both sides as we enter the back of the restaurant. The music from the lounge pulsates, vibrations rippling through me as I stand in the center of them, quivering with ‘fear’.
The guy who frisked me murmurs something against my hair, and his warm breath against my cheek makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
He knows about the other exit, too.
“I-I have a key,” I whisper, my words still heavily accented. “It fell out of his pocket and I grabbed it. Maybe we should try it?” I’ve been here in Brooklyn for ten years and worked tirelessly to drop my accent. It just helps me blend better and people don’t readily assume I fled the Ukraine because some psychopaths were on the hunt to destroy my family. But it comes in handy during times like these when I’m playing a part.
And doing a damn good job, if I say so myself.
The guy looks at me, his thick eyebrows knitting together. We hurry toward the exit door and I pull the key out of my bra, making sure my hand quivers just enough to be believable. It takes me a few seconds to stick it in the lock, but that’s all part of the ruse. Finally, it slides in and I twist the handle.
I rub my hands down the sides of my arms once we’re outside.
I need to ditch these guys fast and strip out of this costume.