Mafia Boss’s Arranged Bride by Bella King

Chapter 28

Annika

Thick waves of euphoria run through my body as we finally emerge from our hiding place. I feel as though I’ve been inside for years, and even the traumatic memories of the wedding have faded into a gray portrait of the once poignant movie they were. I’m thankful for it and for the new woman I’ve become in my short week of captivity.

The clouds haven’t parted for the sun since the day of the wedding, and the gloom that stuck to the atmosphere still clings to every living organism, every weed and struggling dandelion that grows from the cracks in the pavement. The earth is alive, but it’s far from thriving.

Nikolai guides me to the back of the building, where an old silver sedan is parked so close to the wall that the front bumper is literally resting against the crumbling brick. He swings the keys around on his finger like a high schooler showing off his first car. Something about it is charming, even if it’s totally ridiculous.

He holds out a hand to stop me from circling the car and getting in on the passenger’s side. “I’m assuming you know how to drive,” he says, lowering his gaze at me.

I shrug. “I’ve driven before.”

“That doesn’t sound promising.”

“Well, I promise that I won’t kill us. I just don’t want to get pulled by the police because I don’t have a license,” I admit in the most playful manner I can muster.

Nikolai drops the keys into my hand and chuckles.

“What are you laughing at?” I ask.

“I think your lack of a license is the least of our worries, Annika,” he says, rounding the car and opening the door to get in as a passenger. “With how many guns we have on us, I think the police would be more concerned with the arsenal than your driving abilities. I’m not banking on them letting us go, so if we do get pulled over, we’re shooting our way out of this. That, or you keep driving and see just how fast this piece of shit can move.” He pats on the hood before ducking into the car.

When he puts it like that, I guess I’m not worried about the fact that I never got a license. When I used to take my mother’s car out on occasion without one of my father’s drivers, I’d be paranoid that the police would pull me over, and I would end up in handcuffs.

These days, jail seems like the most innocent thing that could befall me. I’ve seen others shot and killed, massacred in front of my own eyes, and I know that life can do much worse than a bed and three consistent meals a day.

“Don’t let your mind wander,” Nikolai warns as I settle into the seat beside him. “I know where we can find Corey, but you’re going to have to keep your eyes peeled for anyone else. You park, but be prepared to drive away if someone comes up to the car. Or shoot them. I guess that’s your prerogative.”

“Where are we even going?” I ask, silently thanking James at the same time for not driving a manual shift. I’m too American to drive anything but an automatic, even if I was born in Russia.

“Assuming Corey is still working on the force, we could probably find him at the police station,” Nikolai says as he rolls his seat back as far as it will go.

My stomach drops. “What? You must be joking.”

“I’m not, and I’m not keen on wasting time either. You should get us out of here before we draw attention to the safehouse.”

I start the car, pulling it out of the faded parking spot a little too fast as I try to make sense of what Nikolai is telling me. We’re supposed to drive down the police station with a rundown car full of guns and expect not to get ourselves riddling with bullet holes the second we catch their attention.

He must have a death wish.

My concentration is pulled away from Nikolai’s asinine plan and focused fully on driving the car.

It smells like a middle-aged man. Old coffee stains waft up in the small cabin combined with the musty smell of whatever is growing inside of the air conditioner. I hope it isn’t mold because I’ve heard of spores killing people.

I’m sure this thing hasn’t had an oil change in ages either because I can smell the congealed black substances steadily burning in the engine, gumming it up for its eventual demise. I guess I shouldn’t be concerned about breathing any of that in when Nikolai fishes out a dried-out pack of cigarettes from the glovebox and pulls one out for a smoke.

“Roll down the window, at least,” I say as he lights it with a match.

“Focus on the road, Annika,” he replies, closing his eyes and wearing a thin smile on his lips. I’m sure that nicotine must feel good after so many days without it. I almost want to slap that smug smile off his face, but then I remember what we’ve both been through and stop myself. He deserves a moment of peace.

“How about you share that thing if you’re going to smoke it in here,” I say, holding my hand out expectantly.

“This?” he asks, motioning in the air with his cigarette without opening his eyes.

“Or whatever is left in the pack.”

He places the cigarette back between his lips and taps another out of the crinkled pack. “They’re pretty dry,” he warns as he hands it to me and goes for the matches.

I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, in all honesty. I’ve tried them before, but it was so far back that I don’t even remember the taste, only that I felt a bit sick to my stomach afterward. That feeling seems to have permanently settled in my gut now, so I see no harm in smoking.

Life’s short, and we all die anyway.

A thin puff of smoke causes my eyes to water, but I blink it off as I suck the hot air into my lungs. I clench my teeth hard as it infiltrates my bronchioles, coating them with something that can’t be cleaned out with just a cough. It’s uncomfortable, but I like it anyway.

Nikolai is a bad influence, that’s for sure, but I still feel better with him than I ever did back at home. There’s something surreal about smoking cigarettes while we barrel down the road en route to the police station just a week after my family was slaughtered. It’s as though we were never part of the mafia in the first place, like the life I had was nothing more than a fucked up fever dream.

Until blue lights flash behind us, and I’m pulled back into reality so fast that I’m pretty sure some essential piece of me was left behind.

“Motherfucker,” Nikolai growls, already going for his gun.

“What do I do?” I ask, my throat closing up so fast that the final sounds that escape my throat are barely even a whisper.

“Floor it.”