Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Dante
Petrov’s body hunches to the side, his bulk pulling me along, making me stagger. I draw my arms from around his broken neck. For a moment, his head hangs at an odd angle just before he goes crashing down, the chair tumbling after him.
I breathe, look around. I’m left with four dead bodies in this hole. My shoulder is pouring blood down my arm, seeping through my shirt and coat. I raise my bound hands to touch the area and wince.
Feeling dizzy and too hot, I take an unsteady step toward the counter, pain making my vision go black for moments in time. When I get to the counter, I set the gun down and grip the edge, looking for what I need. I find a small sharp knife and pick it up, turning it to slice through the zip-ties. It takes a full minute to do it but when it’s done, I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face.
“She tasted wonderful. Have you had a taste yet? Something about eating a nice, young, virgin pussy.”
I look over at the dead man as I pull a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and wipe my face then check his pistol for bullets. Two left.
“Tell me have you felt her tight cunt squeeze your dick yet? Or hear her scream when you take her ass?”
I walk toward him, look at his still open but empty eyes. I spit on the side of his face before walking toward the smaller man. I pick up his gun, check the chamber and tuck it, too, into the waistband of my jeans. I take off my bloody coat and switch it out for the one he was wearing. It’s a tight fit but it’ll have to do. I also take his hat and put it on my head. I’m recognizable enough with the patch so I’m hoping this will give me some cover.
Because I’m not finished here yet.
If his sons are upstairs, I’ll have to kill them too.
So, I make my way back up the stairs, gripping Petrov’s gun at my side when I open the door. There’s no one here. I smell cigarette smoke, though, and glance at the door that leads to the alley. It’s cracked open and the smell is coming from that direction. I guess Petrov didn’t let them smoke inside. How conscientious of him.
I walk toward the kitchen, and I can almost hear Matthaeus shouting at me as I push the swinging door open. This isn’t the plan.
“Now my son, he had a special preference for her mouth.”
My blood boils.
It’s noisy in here, lots of staff. I put my hand into my jacket pocket to keep the gun out of sight. The lady at the counter closest to me turns when I enter. She gasps when she sees me grip the edge of her workspace, gaze catching on the bloody print my hand leaves there.
I should get out. Come back with my men. That would be the smart thing to do. But Petrov managed to evade me for five years. I’m not taking a chance on that happening with his offspring. I put a hand to my shoulder, suck a deep breath in and focus on what he said about his son. About what he did to Mara. I look around the kitchen, locate the door a waiter carrying a tray exits from and follow him into the restaurant part of the club. I pause there, grateful it’s dimmer in here.
I’ve never been inside Red’s before, although I’ve seen pictures. It’s huge and lavishly decorated, catering to a high-end crowd. Dress is formal, the wine expensive, the food elegant. I scan the restaurant for either of Petrov’s sons. Viktor and Sacha Petrov. Viktor is first-born. Red’s belongs to him. He looks like a younger version of his father. Sacha, the slightly smarter of the two—or at least the more sober—looks like his mother. And they couldn’t be more different.
If I had to guess which son Petrov was referring to, my money would be on Viktor. But just in case, I’ll take them both out.
Neither are in the dining room though. The tables reserved for the family are set apart from the rest on raised dais. Pretentious pricks.
I cross the dining room toward the club room aware I’m getting looks. Aware I need to hurry this up and get the fuck out of here before Petrov’s soldiers or sons realize I walked out of that cellar.
The music at the club room is the same as that in the restaurant but a little louder. The place darker, more shadowy, the highlights being the various stages upon which beautiful women in various states of dress dance.
The majority of the guests in this room are men but there are women too. I don’t care about any of them, though. Not when I see the room set apart on a mezzanine level. It’s glassed in and two men and one woman are seated at an elegant table as a waiter pours the woman a glass of wine.
It’s Viktor I recognize first. He’s built like his father. He stands from the table, throwing his napkin to the floor as he takes a call. He walks to the window and surveys his club.
I back into the shadows of a sculpture of some Greek goddess, her tits at eye level. I watch Viktor, then see the door to their private room open and several soldiers walk in. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and turns to them.
I take a step toward the stairs that will lead me up to that room, stumbling once as I do, the room spinning. Just then there’s a loud pop. I jerk my head toward the sound, tugging to get the gun out of my pocket. But it’s not a bullet I heard. I see the group of people laughing around the freshly opened bottle of champagne. I push the gun back out of sight.
Breathe. Process the dizziness. Get a fucking handle on my vision fading in and out of black.
I reach my other hand out to steady myself, not sure what I’m reaching for but hear the crashing of crystal as I knock a tray out of the waitress’s hand.
Fuck.
I glance at the stairs I’m heading toward. See the half-dozen men dressed in suits that fit too tightly across their chests rush down. See the effort it takes for them to slow their steps and smile tightly at the guests as they scan the room. I notice one zeroing in on where the sound came from. I crouch down along with the waitress to pretend to help her clean but keep my gaze on them.
I’m so close. I just need to get into their glass cage. I can see them. Both brothers still there. The woman gone now. I don’t know where she went. They’re standing at the glass wall searching the place. I’d shoot now but I know that glass is bulletproof. Petrov is—was—meticulous in protecting himself and his family. He wouldn’t miss that detail.
I get to my feet when the soldier heading toward us is interrupted by another waiter. I turn, weave through a group toward the stairs, my hand still in my pocket, Petrov’s gun cool in my grip when another hand falls heavy on my shoulder.
The injured shoulder.
I wince, grit my teeth to keep from crying out.
“I think you should leave,” a man I don’t know says. “You’re outnumbered. By a lot.” He squeezes my shoulder. “And not exactly up to the task.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, turning to look at the man as I shove his hand from my shoulder. He’s got his head down too, as if he is also trying to stay out of sight.
“There are about a million cameras in here. This was stupid,” he adds as if I give a fuck what he thinks.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask louder this time.
Another man approaches on my other side and they each take an arm. “This way,” he says as they lead me away from the stairs that would take me to the brothers’ perch.
I turn back in time to see another maybe ten soldiers descend those same stairs, several rushing toward the kitchen. We get to a set of double doors where the first man discreetly hands a folded bill to the one standing sentry. He glances around, pockets the bill, and pushes the door open.
Once we’re outside, an SUV pulls up, the back door opens, and I’m escorted into yet another vehicle. I take my pistol out of my pocket as the car pulls too fast away from Red’s, just as soldiers hurry from the door in the alley they took me in from.
“Again,” I ask, shifting my gaze to the first man, very aware how everything seems to be spinning. How sweat is dripping down my forehead and into my good eye. I meet the stranger’s eyes. “Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?” I cock the pistol and aim to his stomach.
He grins. “I’m the man saving your fucking life. Although I’m not quite sure it’s worth my time.”
The one on the other side of me grips my gun hand, which is already unsteady, and twists it back, relieving me of Petrov’s pistol. We’re driving fast, too fast, and cars honk their horns as we speed through a red light, sending two vehicles crashing into each other while we slip past. It’s like a fucking movie.
The driver laughs, drives a few more blocks before slowing at the command of the first stranger. A moment later, I’m tossed out onto the curb on my ass, the vehicle barely slowing, the pavement unforgiving as I crash down and watch the fuckers drive away.