26. Elira

26

ELIRA

I don't know Vegas. I'm not familiar with ‘the streets' or ‘the bad sides of town.' But as I stare up at the dilapidated, red brick building with a corner of it tinged black like someone unsuccessfully tried to burn it down, I know I'm here.

I look down at the address written on my palm to ensure it's correct for a third time before wrapping my arms around myself, staying tucked inside the alley out of sight. Any moment it feels as though the Bratva will snatch me up. Maybe even hurt me for wounding one of their lieutenants.

Maksim's car is parked safely in a parking garage on ‘the good side of town.' I borrowed a tarp from a kind, unaware owner of a very classic looking American model to keep it hidden and have gone on foot since then, walking with my head down to a nearby Internet cafe before ultimately hitchhiking to this location. Still, it's only a matter of time before I'm caught.

For one thing, Odessa, my friend from the bakery, the one who told me how to get this address, knows where I am. And if she knows where I am, Maksim might. Worse than that, I still have my phone which he's no doubt tracking. I should've dumped it already, but it's still my lifeline to my mother, so the best I've managed is keeping it off for long stretches of time, only turning it on when I'm prepared to run to a secure location.

It burns the skin of my chest now as it's tucked beneath the strap of my bra, begging me to turn it on to check my calls, but I don't. I can't. Not until I leave here.

With a shaky breath, I step from the alley and head to the building. I was told the best chance of making it to Albania is to drive to Mexico before flying home, but I still need a fake ID. Mathew Smith—not a real name, I presume—in 4D is supposed to be able to help with that.

My skin crawls as I walk through the building, and any minute it feels like a Russian mobster will step from the shadows, gun in hand. Or even worse, a hitman.

I swallow and wrap my arms around myself. The truth is, if it were a hitman popping from the shadows, I might be relieved. If they're coming after me, maybe it means they aren't going after my family.

But the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me I'm not that lucky. I can sense the danger lurking over them, feel the hopelessness of not being near. It makes my steps quicken and fingertips tingle. By the time I make it to Mathew Smith's door, I'm a nervous wreck, which must make me look less suspicious because his boyish face slumps with a frown.

It takes twenty minutes and everything in Maksim's wallet to make me Iris Kissinger—not a name that seemed fitting, but I didn't get to choose. Once I'm out of the building, new ID in hand, I force myself to wait until I've walked four blocks before I turn on my phone.

My plan is to allow myself thirty seconds. If Mami has called, I will listen to the message, then find another device to contact her if she's safe. If she isn't, I'll call her right away. If there are no messages, I'll turn the phone right back off, run two blocks, then catch a ride back to the parking garage.

My eyes are wide as I stare at the screen while tucked into an alleyway, praying my search party or killer isn't nearby.

It takes a minute for everything to load but only a second for my heart to fall. No calls from Mami. Twenty-six calls from Maksim. One from Anya.

What if I'm too late?

What if they're dead?

I let out a shaky breath and go to turn the phone off, but Maksim's contact appears as he tries to call, deepening the ache in my heart. My body longs to be wrapped in his arms, to give in to his comfort, to accept his support.

But his support isn't real. It isn't good enough. I decline his call but hesitate to turn off the phone.

Staring at my missed call from Anya, I try not to think about the fear she must be feeling. The confusion.

Does she understand why I left?

Does she… Does she know I didn't abandon her? Her brother will keep her safe. She has an army in front of her. She's safe . So much safer than Asher or Bora or Mami. She must know this.

Biting my lip, I go to my voicemail and listen to her message.

"Elira," she says, her voice strained like she's upset. "I'm with Tanner at his uncle's house right now, and umm..." The line goes quiet for a moment, the calm before a storm. Sobs erupt, making me press the phone against my ear. "Can you please come get me? You and Maksim were right. He isn't a good guy. I should've listened, but… Please don't tell Maksim. Just you." She sniffles. "I'll text you the address."

End of message.

Does she not know the danger we're in?

In a panic, I go to call her, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Damn it.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, Anya. What are you doing?

I bring up Maksim's contact, ready to text him where she is, but the hurt in her voice gives me pause.

It's her life at stake. He has to know.

And I have to leave.

If I call, he'll catch me.

If I don't, Anya is in danger. She already is.

If Maksim goes there… If he loses it—which he will—and hurts that stupid boy…

Anya would never forgive him.

But…

Asher.

Bora.

Mami.

They are the ones I'm supposed to be saving. Not Anya. Not the sister of the man who constantly betrays me.

But…

"Even when I hated you, even when I was ready to kill you, I never would've stood by while she was harmed. Never."

My own words. Were they a lie?

I think about it for a long time. Too long with the phone in my hand that was only supposed to be on for a minute.

My eyes close as I growl.

I make note of the address Anya sent, shut off the phone, then sprint three blocks before finding two young boys to give me a lift to Maksim's car. One pitstop to make before Mexico.

Tanner's uncle's house is bigger than I expected given the state of Tanner. And nicer. It's modern, sleek, and gray on the outskirts of Las Vegas, with a pond surrounding it that strikes me as abnormally large even with limited experience of American homes. The few neighboring houses are spread out between acres of shrubbery that allow privacy.

Bright orange fish swim around below my feet as I walk over a small bridge to the front door, my steps determined.

I pound my fist on the front door then use the knocker when no one answers after a few seconds. Heat radiates from my ears, my teeth grind, but if I'm honest, the anger is a welcome distraction from fear.

"Hello!" I bang again. "I'm here for Anya!"

Gradually, as a minute goes by without an answer, my anger begins to wane. I listen carefully for anything inside, and when I don't hear a peep, the fear returns.

Maksim was almost certain the hit wasn't placed on my family. That it was placed on us.

What if…?

I try the door and find it unlocked. Is that a bad sign or good?

"Anya?" I call, my voice much softer than before as I stick my head inside. I still don't get a response.

What if I got the address wrong?

I step back outside and look for evidence of Anya being here. Tanner's truck or that motorcycle she talked about. She said he got it from his uncle, and this could very well be a wealthy uncle's home.

Toeing inside, I scan the entryway, searching for her white purse with the chain strap she carries. Nowhere.

"Anya, I'm here!"

I listen carefully.

Nothing.

Goosebumps raise on my arms that I try to ignore but can't. Something is telling me to walk out the door. Drive away.

But I can't. I could never do that to Anya.

I pull out my phone and turn it on, but when I try to call Maksim, there's no service. Fuck .

I should step outside. Find service. She called me from here, so this must just be a dead spot. This must be…

Something tiny and green catches my eye in the next room as I cautiously move that way, and when I spot it, I can't stop moving. More tiny green balls appear, scattered throughout this sitting area.

My subconscious knows what it is; it's the only explanation as to why my stomach balls into a knot then stuffs itself up into my throat. My brain, on the other hand, is slower to process, searching through memories until finally I see the band of beads that had been wrapped around Anya's wrist this afternoon.

My lips part with what would be a gasp if my lungs were working.

I hurry several steps that way but force myself to stop and look at the phone that still doesn't have service. It can't be a coincidence. Something—or someone—is blocking the reception.

"Anya!" I call despite my better judgment as I hurry into the hallway.

"Elira," Anya cries, snapping my head toward the kitchen.

I dart that way, letting the phone fall through my fingers. As soon as I pass through the doorway, I halt at the sight of Anya's trembling form tied to a kitchen chair with a woman pointing a gun at her head.

Tanner lies in a pool of blood at her feet, the chair he's tied to tipped over with him. His eyes are closed, but there's so much blood around his head that there must be a bullet in the back of it. He's dead.

"I'm so sorry," Anya cries, lowering her eyes as a sob overtakes her. "They made me do it."

They .

My attention turns to the last person in the room as she walks toward me, no weapon, no fear. She doesn't even wear a smirk on her Botoxed face. She looks like a woman out for revenge who's far too angry to enjoy it.

Her brown hair is swept over her shoulders and perfect while the woman with the gun has hers high in a ponytail. She wears black slacks and a white, loose-sleeved blouse, an outfit familiar to me. I threw out several just like it.

This is the woman from the photo. Daniel's wife.

The first thing I felt when I walked into this room, saw Anya in that chair with the gun pointed at her, was fear. The kind that swallows you whole. Makes you freeze. The kind that, frankly, I'm used to.

But now… Seeing this woman…

I can't help the way my shoulders square or the way my mind brings my attention to the ring suddenly too loose on my finger. A poor fit.

It's sick, but I find my eyes moving to her left hand. Her rock is so much bigger.

"Do you know who I am?" the woman asks like she's the godfather. When my eyes find hers, I imagine they're blazing, and I just hope Anya doesn't pay for my mistakes. But the thing is… I'm not afraid of the godfather. I've met worse. I damn sure am not going to cower for the woman trying to avenge a human trafficker.

"Daniel's wife."

She tips her chin in confirmation. "And do you know why you're here?"

I flex my fingers, my damn ring feeling as uncomfortable as ever. "So you can pretend he was a man worth killing for."

The first bit of emotion breaks out on her face in the form of a smile cracking one side of her lips. "Because the man you viciously murdered was a husband and a brother." She waves to the woman holding the gun, but I don't take my eyes off her. Not even when the ponytailed one pulls a chef knife out and brings it to her. She takes it in her perfectly manicured hand, her ring shining.

That must've cost a fortune. More than Daniel ever led on to having. I bet her wedding dress did too. It made mine, the dress, look like a rag.

What the fuck did she do to deserve that?

"And today you're going to learn how it felt to be him," she goes on, tipping the knife at me suggestively, trying to intimidate me. "And you're also going to learn how it feels to be me."

I stare at her, unblinking, my chin lifting slightly. I think she's expecting me to ask what she means. Maybe even beg. But I'm not an idiot. Well, I am. I am for trusting Maksim. Or for not trusting Maksim, I'm not sure which at this point.

But I know what she wants to do. She wants to kill Anya. And my family. She wants me to feel her pain, and then she wants to stick that knife into me and watch me bleed out, all while begging her for mercy.

Remember how I said I didn't know what the men who took me wanted? This woman and I are two sides of the same coin. I don't need to guess when it comes to her. We live by the same principle.

Hurt my family, hurt me, and I will fucking destroy you.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, I remove the imposter ring from my hand and toss it to the floor.