Dark Mafia Kings by Penelope Wylde
Chapter Seven
Her heart rate suddenly fell flat.
She took a step back and then another. Clammy and confused, she nearly forgot her surroundings and the seconds ticking by.
“What were you into, Father?” She shook her head and dislodged the fog of questions that clouded her thoughts.
She’d asked for proof and found it. Hadn’t she? Then again, she knew her father. Kind, loving, a bit of a gambler and he laughed way too loud at parties, but that never made a man guilty. Nor did having a picture on a table in the bowels of a sex club, for that matter. All the support and love he offered her when he could have turned her away deserved the benefit of the doubt in her book. Her brothers would probably agree. No, they’d jump first and then ask. She didn’t think that way.
Still, a rarely felt inkling of suspicion clung to her like a pesky weed.
Determination pushed her thoughts toward a dangerous cliff. She either jumped or backed away to safer ground. But no one ever learned anything hanging back in the safe zone. She had proof tucked away in her clothes and her phone, of what exactly she didn’t know, but that was a problem for after. But it was a start in the right direction.
She pulled her phone and snapped a quick shot of the picture, her hands shaky.
Damn it.
Adrenaline mixed with panic. The concoction wrapped around her heart.
Scared soulless, she took one last look over her shoulder before she retraced her steps back up the spiraling staircase and into the darkness.
Her thigh muscles burned from the extra effort of backtracking.
Something snapped, causing her to fall forward, hitting the side of her face. She looked back to find her heel broken, sticking out of stone.
Great.
She forced a shaky breath into her lungs to help calm herself.
All hope of getting out of there undetected dissolved instantly as the heavy wooden door gave and she rolled forward onto her stomach.
Rhia scrambled to her knees and hands, lunging from her broken-off heel before the door snicked closed.
Eyes wide, she jerked her fingers back before the massive swinging bookcase could pull them between the steel frame. Eyes wide, mouth hinged open, she froze.
This was her worst nightmare. Scratch that. Her worst nightmare was her being caught or locked behind the huge secret door with no known way out. She shivered just thinking about it.
This she could do. Breathe, Rhia.
On her knees, she patted her breasts and silently thanked God for the small token of luck she still had her phone neatly tucked between her skin and the leather of her bodice with the stolen papers.
A panic-induced meltdown threatened to overthrow any rational thought she could conjure.
How the hell had she opened the door in the first place? She rushed to her feet and wobbled from the lack of half of a shoe.
With little choice, Rhia dove for the bookcase and moved every single item within reach until she found the bookend needed to reopen the door.
The latch sprung and seconds later she had the offending missing heel spike in hand.
So she didn’t look like a complete drunk trying to wobble on a broken shoe, she slipped the heels off.
Muffled sounds caught her attention.
Shaking, she crossed the office and pressed her ear to the door, but the sound of blood pounding against her temples blocked everything out.
“Even breaths, Rhia.” She knew the routine. Performed it since childhood when panic attacks took over. Fourth grade had been particularly hard. The year her mother left her. “One.” Inhale, hold. “Two.” Let out, pause. Repeat.
She continued until the count of five and slowly relaxed, nerves dropping from extreme panic mode to a more moderate level. Truth be told, it was always there, though. Right below the surface. Her brothers were right even if they didn’t know it yet. She’d been dumb to walk into the lion’s den and prance around like a damn lamb.
Ear pressed to the door again, she listened.
“Thank God.” Only silence came through. If she made it out of here, a midnight stop-over for mass and a confessional session sat firmly in her future.
She caught sight of the clock she’d heard chime early from the corner of the office. Security would be making their rounds in a few minutes. After a night of tequila, a game of truth or dare, and more tequila coupled with Indigo’s inability to hold her liquor, Rhia had walked away with a wealth of information. Like which guard liked to break the rules when he thought no one was looking. And why she picked tonight for her breaking and entering. Information truly was the most destructive weapon a person could wield.
She mentally ran over the blueprints and her own knowledge of the building’s layout. Nothing in them suggested secret entrances, but they did mark the normal routes through the weaving and ever-turning hallways. To the left—and the way she’d ascended to the offices—she’d run into a guard or worse, Volkov for sure.
To the right, she’d still be caught by the guards at the bottom of the stairs who ensured the higher echelon of the one-percenters had their own ‘special’ section of the club. The inner politics of the club still baffled her on a good day, but she knew one thing. Only a few of the hostesses made the cut to tend to clientele on the second level and she wasn’t one of them.
Rhia crouched, trying to cling to the darkest parts of the room, and slipped out of Volkov’s office. Relief filled her the second she heard the door click into place behind her. At some point, while she’d been on the inside someone had turned the lights off.
Careful not to tip anything over or risk more secret compartments popping open, Rhia patted around in the darkness until her fingers brushed against cold brass. A couple of twists and a low light filled the room. Anyone could forget to turn off a lamp so leaving it on didn’t bother her. At least now she wouldn’t run into any walls.
“Imagine seeing such a lovely creature emerge from the darkness.”
Russian accent. Sevastyan. Shit.
“Imagine indeed, hermano.”
Spanish accent. Matteo.
Rhia’s heart stopped.
Two rich, masculine voices from behind her froze Rhia in her tracks. Some days she questioned her reason to be put on this earth. Nothing ever seemed to work out for her.
She turned her head until a white crisp shirt came into view. Her gaze climbed to find the darkest set of whiskey eyes rimmed with a set of thick, black lashes.
“Mr. Volkov.”
To her right stood Matteo. His eyes grew dark as midnight yet just as sexy and penetrating as Sevastyan’s.
Both men stepped into the light, their attention narrowed down to one thing in that room.
Her.
Rhia stiffened.
She’d never been one for theatrics but she couldn’t deny one thing. She had little reason to trust the men’s calm voice and all the reason on God’s green earth to fear their wrath.
Sevastyan pitched his head to the side, eyes fiery. “Moya kroshka, mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing?”
