Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Which made me wonder what the fuck a Bratva enforcer was doing around here, hanging in their car like they were waiting for someone.
But they hadn’t moved in hours.
I was parked in the opposite direction, a few cars back, looking like I was reading a newspaper and possibly waiting to escort my boss to their next meeting. I wasn’t the only one, so I didn’t seem to stand out to them.
I was thankful for my good optical genes, and the fact that the sun was hidden behind moody clouds, as I sat there, being able to see in their windshield, seeing what they were doing.
Which was watching the building just a few yards ahead of me.
They were waiting for someone.
But who?
And why?
My gaze shifted to the building, wondering what kind of businesses could be found inside. I was about to reach for my phone to figure that out when I saw the door push open, and a woman moved outside, a phone pressed to her ear.
Whoever she was talking to was clearly chewing her out, judging by the way she was running a hand through her wavy blonde hair, how her head was tipped back, looking at the sky, and only managing to seem to squeeze in one-word answers here and there.
She was gorgeous, tall and long-legged, wearing a pair of high-waisted dress shorts in a khaki color and a white ribbed tank top, looking effortlessly put together but also comfortable. On her feet, she had a pair of tan leather pointed flat shoes with gold buckles. A giant matching bag was hoisted up on her shoulder.
Half of her face was hidden by giant black sunglasses, but I made out a square jaw and a small, straight nose.
I had this oddly strong urge to go out there and remove the sunglasses, so I could see her whole face.
She turned back toward the door, like she was about to go back in, so my gaze slid back to the Russians.
And found they’d rolled down the window.
And they were looking at the building intently as the driver shuffled with something in his lap.
I looked back, finding the woman decided against going back in. She had her phone held to her ear still, but she was starting to move away from the building.
My gaze cut back to the enforcer.
Finding him zeroed in on the woman as he turned in his seat.
There was no reason to assume the worst.
Maybe he just thought she was pretty, wanted to watch her walk away.
Or perhaps he even needed to snap some pictures of her for his boss.
But the hairs were standing up on the back of my neck, every instinct in my body telling me something was about to go horribly wrong.
My hand went to the gear shift without me realizing the thought even crossed my mind, shifting into reverse as I checked my mirrors.
Traffic was light as I slowly inched my way out of my parking spot. I was in the road finally when my gaze slid back to the enforcer.
It wasn’t a camera that I saw peeking out of the window.
No.
That was a gun.
I pushed the pedal down, but he was already squeezing off shots.
Screams erupted on the streets as I gunned it forward, watching the woman drop her phone, her body frozen, confused. Or in shock.
Cutting off the path of the bullets with my vehicle, I leaned over my center console and threw open the passenger door as a bullet dinged into the trunk of my car.
“Get in!” I yelled.
Her fight-or-flight instinct finally seemed to kick in, making her run toward my car, throwing herself in.
I was tearing off before she even closed her door, pulling down the closest cross street, then another, trying to get as far away from the Bratva as possible if they were going to follow.
It wasn’t until I was stuck at a red light that I finally looked over.
To find her hyperventilating.
With blood dripping down her arm.
CHAPTER THREE
Elizabeth
I didn’t sleep all night, tossing and turning, trying to decide what I was supposed to do.
Did I go to the police?
With what proof?
All I had was my word on what I overheard.
Sure, I had the name Dimitri. But I had to imagine there were more than a few criminals with that name in Brooklyn or the city as a whole.
And who was going to believe a random woman running a reelection campaign over an incumbent, highly respected, senator?
It was in the shower the next morning that I decided that my move would have to be to get evidence.
New York was a one-party consent state. Meaning if I was a part of a conversation involving corruption, I could record it without the other party knowing. But I couldn’t record a conversation between two other people without permission.
Short of finding actual paperwork proving a connection to Russian criminals that I could turn over to the police, my only choice was to try to get Michael to speak to me about it.