But he didn't put a seatbelt on me—just threw me, blindfolded and bound, into the back seat of his car.
If we crash, I would fly through the air.
The tiny spark inside me would fly through the air.
Where would we land?
"Your husband is a traitor." Markov lets loose a long string of thick Russian. I think he's forgetting I don't speak it, or getting drunker, because half the time he seems to expect me to answer.
"Working with the Feds. Challenging Solonik. I bet Petrokov thought he'd fucking kill me, too. But now I have his little whore. I wonder, should I carve you up the way your husband carved Solonik?"
He takes another drink. Another bit in Russian.
"—your pretty thighs. I normally like them younger than you, but for you, sweet little thing, I'll make an exception. Don't worry. I'll train you well. I'll teach you something new every day. Then maybe I sell you, to make money. But then again, maybe I cut you up in pieces and send them back to your traitor fucking husband."
His words make my stomach churn, and I pray that I won't throw up again.
I pray—for everything.
But at least I know: Gray is alive.
35
Gray
I'm riding up my apartment's elevator, but I feel like I'm descending to Hell.
Will she be home? Did Kat stay—or did she flee from me?
I hope she listened.
I hope she trusted me.
I should have answered her panicked calls, but I was in the middle of a federal investigation, a fight for my life, and a mafia family takeover.
And to be honest: I was fucking pissed at her. I didn't trust myself not to want to hurt her, like she'd hurt me.
It was better this way.
But now, the kitchen's empty. The lights are off.
I walk slowly down the long hallway to my bedroom, my heavy footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors.
Maybe she's asleep. Maybe she's in the shower.
I push open the door and discover…nothing.
I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, then scream like an animal and punch a hole right through my white, pristine fucking wall.
My knuckles are bleeding, but I don't feel any pain.
Chest heaving, I tell myself I don't care about her. I don't want her, not if she had been planning on leaving all along. The lying, scheming—heart-breaking—
That's when I see her purse. Her fucking big, blue-gray "like my fucking eyes" purse. I grab it, turn it upside down, empty it on the bed.
Money comes fluttering down, covering the white comforter with twenties and hundreds. A bed covered with thousands of dollars. All I ever thought I'd wanted. But no passport.
Wait. I reach in, pull the lining inside-out. There's her passport.
"Motherfucker," I whisper. I grab my phone, calling Chase on speaker while I pull up my tracking app. It loads too fucking slowly, and Chase answers just as the little green blip solidifies, showing me where Kat's cellphone is.
"Motherfucker," I moan. "Chase, get to Café Russo. Now. Kat's there."
Except, she isn't. Just her phone, abandoned by the sidewalk, next to the crime-scene tape and the bloody last resting place of Viktor Solonik.
The policewoman guarding the scenes eyes Chase, Declan and me, but doesn't say anything.
"C'mon," I order, and we all get back into Chase's SUV. As he peels out, I ask him where the fuck Elle is.
"I took her upstate, man. I was going to take Kat, but you said don't let Elle talk to her—"
"Enough." I lean my head back, wanting to punch a wall again.
Really, wanting to hurt myself.
She didn't leave me. But she's missing. Markov's missing.
Dear God, what have I done.
"Did Kat call her?" I bite out.
Chase winces, weaving through traffic. "You said to cut her off from Kat. I took her phone when she wasn't looking, man. I made Elle think she lost it, and I gave her a new one."
"Call Elle. Declan, get men on this. My wife is missing. No money, no phone. If she dies, if she gets hurt, I burn this fucking city to the ground."
36
Kat
Finally the car stops. I don't know whether to cry from relief, or cry from fear. Because now that we're not driving, he's going to take me out of the car.
Touch me.
Do whatever the hell he wants to me.
And from the way he's been ranting for hours—he wants to do an awful lot of really awful things.
I steel myself, though. I can do anything. I can do anything, I can survive anything, as long as I try to protect my stomach, protect what's growing there.
"Here, kitty, kitty." Markov's voice is low, slurred. I hear his car door open, his body stumble out, then the driver's door slams shut. I rub my face against the seat, hoping to loosen my blindfold, even a little bit.
On my left, the car door opens, right where my feet are. A burst of cold, fresh air washes over me. We're somewhere high, somewhere cool, somewhere away from the heat of the city in June.
A hand wraps around my ankle. I bite my lip to keep from crying out. He drags me, bound and blind and helpless, toward the door. He doesn't stop there; I realize too late that he's pulling me all the way out of the car—I cry out as I land, hard, on gravel.
"Ow," I moan. My hands are tied behind my back.
"Get up," Markov orders, pulling on the collar of my shirt.
I try to make my feet obey, but I just stumble and fall onto my other hip.
"Fucking stupid су́ka," he mutters.
And then suddenly—I can see! I blindfold has fallen to my neck. I blink furiously, the setting sun still too bright for my eyes. It takes a minute for my vision to clear, but when it does I see Markov, his brown eyes wild, a trickle of blood falling from his temple, coming at me with a knife in his hands.
I open my mouth to scream—but, will he hit me? Kill me anyway?
Do I need to play along? Are my chances of survival better if I don't fight him?
"Good pet, you learned not to scream," he whispers, his voice excited. "I'm going to have such fun teaching you what I like."
Instead of hurting me, he surprises me and uses the knife on the duct tape around my ankle, releasing my legs.
I gasp in pleasure, then pain, as blood rushes back into my that part of my legs.
"A good pet says thank you," Markov says. He holds the knife up in the fading sunlight.
I hate you.
I'll kill you.
Or Gray will.
"Thank you," I whisper.
A slow, intimate smile spreads across his beaten face. "I think we'll get along just fine."
He doesn't release my wrists, but pulls me up to a standing position, and then half-helps, half-drags me toward what I now see is a small cabin half-hidden by a copse of trees. We're parked in a clearing in the woods. And as far as I can tell, we're the only humans anywhere nearby.
There's no key, apparently, because Markov pushes the wooden front door right open. Inside, he paces and inspects the place, like he's familiar with the cabin but hasn't been here in quite some time.
Against the northern wall, there's a stone fireplace. I eye the metal stand next to it, with a small broom, a mini shovel, and an old, iron poker. A worn sofa and a couple old, upholstered chairs that look like they saw their best days in the sixties fill the middle of the room.
On the south side of the room, there's a doorway to what looks like a kitchen. I can see a stove, and the edge of a countertop. And alongside the western wall, is a bed.
One bed.
Markov smiles as he sees me watching it. "Only good pets get to sleep with their Master." He walks up to me, runs his hand over my chest, my stomach, then grabs me between the legs. "Act like a little bitch, and you sleep chained on the floor."
I bite back any reply—anything at all—and just nod. I'm exhausted, terrified, and starving.
Markov wanders in front of the fire, taking what I see
now is a small bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket, and downing another inch or two. So that's what he was drinking in the car. He takes another step, weaving between the furniture.
"Does my pet want a sip?" he walks over to me, grabs the rope binding my wrists in one hand, then pulls me so hard backwards that I almost trip and fall.
"Open your mouth," he orders. I shut my lips and refuse.
"Drink or I cut off a finger," he shouts, right in my ear.
I open my mouth, just slightly, and he jams the bottle in, hitting my teeth in the process. Thankfully, he's so drunk that he basically spills half of what he wants to give me, and as I choke, I spit out most of the rest.
"Good girl," he mutters, wandering over to the bed. "Tired?"
I shake my head vehemently, and he laughs.
"Sure you are." He pushes me further into the room, then slams the front door shut. He locks a deadbolt, but that's all that's keeping us inside.
No keys. If he passed out, I can easily get outside.
But then I'd need the car keys. Shit, I don't know where he put them.
I need to stop driving myself crazy, but looking at the locked door, all I can think is: all Gray wanted to do was lock me up to protect me from psychos like Markov. Why didn't I listen?
"Thinking of your pretty fucking husband?"
I jump, both at how close Markov is, and how he eerily read my mind.
"No," I lie. "He's an asshole. More than you know."
Markov raises one bushy eyebrow. His eyes are bloodshot, and he pushes me toward the sofa while taking another swig of vodka.
"I know exactly what kind of asshole he is," Markov sneers. "He sold out the entire family to the F.B.I. He killed Solonik."
"He'll want to kill you, too," I say. It's a crazy idea, and I can't believe Markov would believe anything I'd tell him—but can I get him on my side? Would he believe me if I say I hate Gray? "He wants to kill everyone. He practically killed me."
Markov rests his head back on the sofa, groaning. I can see he's been hit a few times; half his face is bruised, and only turning a darker purple.
"What happened to you?" I say. "You need ice. If you untie me I can—"
Out of nowhere, he slaps me. So hard my head turns ninety degrees.
"I ran brothels," he says, closing his eyes like he just read a baby a bedtime story instead of kidnapping and hitting a woman. "I know how to tell when a woman lies."
My eyes watering and cheek stinging, I don't know what comes over me. "Fine. Fuck you and fuck your face," I spit out.
Markov's eye fly open, but to my surprise he begins to laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh.
Jesus, it's disturbing.
"I don't care if you live or die," I say. And what's terrifying is, it's the truth. I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. What the hell am I doing? But he seems to like it. "But I want you to do one thing for me." I lean toward him, my body still unsteady from being tied and hit. I make my eyes as cold as I possibly can. I look at Markov and will him to believe me.
"Whatever happens to me, I want you to kill that bastard Grayson Petrokov."
37
Gray
Elle bursts into the bar's office like she's on fire. She's going so fast she stumbles over the threshold, pausing a moment and catching herself before she turns, sees me, and attacks.
Chase slams into the office one second later, shouting her name.
I can't believe the balls—ovaries?—on this chick. She lunges for me, literally throwing herself onto my lap before reaching out her hand to slap me.
I let her. Hard. Once.
Then I grab her wrist, at the same time Chase does.
"Jesus, Elle—" Chase groans.
"It's fine," I spit out. I'd been wanting to hit my own damn face, out of pure guilt. The rush of adrenaline felt good. I needed a fight, wanted blood—but not with her. "She loves Kat. Just like I do."
Chase is holding her back, his arms encircled around her. The pretty blonde is breathing hard, high color on her cheeks, fire in her eyes.
"Bullshit!" she shouts at me.
Chase begins to drag her out, muttering how he told her she had to be calm if she came in—
"Stop. Sit." I gesture toward the couch. I pour Elle a whiskey and hold the glass out to her; it's a shitty peace offering, but it's an offering nonetheless. "You got one hit in. That's more than any other man. You don't get another. Now if you want to help me find your friend, let's talk."
Elle cuts a glance at Chase, who's leaning back on the couch, his arm across her shoulders. At first glance he looks relaxed, like a guy with his girlfriend. But I can see he's tense, ready to jump up at a moment's notice. Stop his girl from attacking me.
"Fine," Elle says, grabbing the whiskey. She takes a sip and doesn't wince. "First thing I'll say is: you're an asshole. No, wait." She glances at Chase, and I see his jaw tense. "You're both assholes. This one steals my phone, and doesn't let Kat contact me. And you—" She points an accusing finger at my face. "You ignore her calls? Her texts? You leave her alone for three days without telling her what the hell's going on, that you're literally in the middle of a mob war or some shit?"
I meet Chase's eyes. He just shakes his head slightly.
"You trust her enough to tell her this shit?"
Elle downs the rest of the whiskey. "I'm right here. You want to talk? Talk to me. And even if he doesn't trust me, Kat does. I can't say I trust either of you right now, but I'm assuming you're the best chance she has. She's been gone over two days. Now where the hell is she?"
I pick up my laptop and hand it to Chase. "The video came from the feds. Traffic camera near Café Russo."
I watch their faces as they watch the scene I've studied over and over again. See their reactions as Solonik stumbles into view. They speak, but you can't see her face. Just her back. Then she turns around, the black-and-white footage grainy and wavering.
But you can still see her scream.
Then they see him grab her and force her into a black SUV, which police found abandoned near the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn.
"So Markov does have her." Chase's voice is hard. Elle bites back a sob. I notice that, although they're sitting next to each other, she won't look at him and isn't touching her.
Shit. Not only have I fucked up the one good thing in my life—now I've fucked up them, too.
I never should have come back for Kat. I never should have let her in, to my life, my heart, my world.
I close my eyes, though my world's so dark right now, it doesn't even matter if my eyes are open or closed—everything's dead, gray.
I'm gonna kill that man.
And if he's hurt her—if he's killed her—fuck me if I won't want to follow her.
But first, I'll deal with that asshole.
The phone rings. The old office landline, which is fucking odd, because I haven't given that number out to anyone.
We all stare at each other a moment, and then I pick up the old, black rotary phone. I don't say anything. On the other end of the line, I hear heavy breathing.
Someone's panicked.
"Kat?" I say. At my words, Elle jumps to her feet. Chase stands, coming over to me so he can try and listen to the call.
A deep inhale, an exhale. And then a surprisingly cold voice, her voice, on the other end of the line.
"He wants to see you," Kay says, inflectionless. "Drive north up Highway 90. You, and you alone. He'll text more directions in three hours."
"Kat, I'm coming, I'm coming for you baby—"
"Good," she says, her voice like ice. "If you don't, he'll kill me."
She pauses, and then she sounds strangely excited. Happy? "And if you do come, then he'll kill you."
I would've run out the door and driven north immediately. I would have done anything. I was out of my mind after she called.
But even Elle stopped and tried to talk some sense into me.
Chase and Declan demanded to come with me, though I told Declan
someone halfway sane had to stay in town, just in case I didn't come back.
"Don’t say that," Declan had warned me.
"Not saying it doesn't make it any less true." I'd clasped him around the shoulder, then started loading up enough artillery to stock a war zone. We agreed Chase and another soldier would come up in a secondary vehicle, but travel about thirty minutes behind me in case Markov had someone watching the roads. Thirty minutes after that, two trucks of men would follow up, and after looking at a map, we sent three more cars heading north, but following different routes.
Wherever she was—even if I couldn't get to her—someone would.
It only took forty minutes for everyone to load up and get organized, but I was jumping out of my skin. Gone was the ghost who could phase in and out of life, without feeling, without caring. I was a human, a fucked-up human. But I was alive. And even if it was the last thing I'd ever do, I was going to make sure Kat stayed alive.
My men gather around me as I got in the car, but then Elle slips through the group, running straight at me. For one moment I think she's going to hit me again, but she stops short in front of my open car door.
"Gray, bring her home." She holds her hand out, and then I realized she's giving me something. I open my palm, and she drops a light, plastic pen into my hand.
"What is this—" My words stop. My stomach drops. It's a pregnancy test. A fucking positive pregnancy test. I stare into the girl's wide blue eyes. "Whose is it?"
"Kat's," Elle says. "And yours."
38
Kat
I can't believe he fell for it, I can't believe he fell for it, Oh God, did he really fall for it?
"What are you thinking, Katya?"
"That I can't believe he fell for it."
Markov snorts. "He thinks he's so smart. But he's a fool."
Of course, I don't mean Gray—I mean Markov. Markov can't seriously think I want Gray dead, can he? But I've been an incredibly convincing actress over the past two days. I deserve an Academy Award, but I'd settle for getting out of here alive.
Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 20
