Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(27)

Why am I not even slightly surprised? I look at my watch. “I better go then.”

Sergei nods. “Don’t let them lead you on. We already set up the rates and quantities for this quarter, I’ll text you the numbers.”

“Alright.” I stand up. “Call me if you need anything. And please start taking Roman’s calls.”

“Sure.” He shrugs, opens the lid of the box, and takes out something that looks like a small grenade launcher.

“You don’t have a tank stashed in the garage, do you?”

“A tank? Why the fuck would I keep a tank in the garage?”

“No reason. I was just wondering.”

“If you need a tank, I can ask Luca. He has the best shit.”

“Luca Rossi?” I look at him. “If Roman finds out you are buying guns from the Italians, it won’t end well. You know we agreed on exclusive for weapons purchases with Dushku.”

“I can buy my personal guns from whomever I want, Mikhail.” He smirks. “But it would be for the best if Roman doesn’t find out. He’ll probably throw a fit, you know what a drama queen my brother is.”

I shake my head. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Let me know if you change your mind about that tank.”

When I get back to my car, I call Sisi, then Denis, and after that send a message to Bianca.

21:19 Mikhail: I don’t know when I’m coming back, probably in the morning. Sisi will come early to help Lena prepare for day care. Denis will come to take you to your ballet class after he drops them off. I will be waiting for you when you are done. Just text me the address.

Afterward, I call Roman to update him on Sergei, put the phone on the dash, start the car, and curse. The only thing I hate more than business negotiations with our suppliers is clubs.





Chapter 10





When I exit the school building around noon, Mikhail is already waiting for me by his monstrous SUV. He is leaning on the hood with his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking mean and sexy in his all-black outfit and aviator glasses. His casual posture says he doesn’t have a care in the world, but I’m not fooled. He is aware of everything happening around him. I’ve noticed how he scans his environment every time he arrives somewhere, weighing all possible threats in the vicinity. It’s as if he is always expecting someone to jump out of the bushes and start shooting.

“How was the class?” he asks when I approach.

I don’t intend to discuss the fact that the class went great, or that they asked me to come again next week. Mikhail owes me something from last night, and I plan on taking it. I stop in front of him, cock my head, and regard him through narrowed eyes.

“Is something wrong, Bianca?”

I nod. It certainly is. Raising my hand in front of me, I curl my finger, asking him to bend down. Mikhail lowers his head. I wish he wasn’t wearing those sunglasses, because even without them, it’s hard to read him. I focus my gaze on his lips, still a couple of inches from mine, and see them curve up slightly. His hand cups my chin, and in the next moment, he crashes his mouth to mine.

It’s not a soft kiss, but a raw, hungry thing. He is always so perfectly controlled, but the few times his composure has slipped have me wondering what lurks below. I can’t wait for the moment when the reins on his control snap completely.

He lets go of my chin but doesn’t move away. “And now? Something still wrong?”

I smirk and shake my head. He is learning. I place my hand on his face, but the moment my fingers touch the skin of his right cheek, he lifts his head abruptly and steps back.

“We should go if we want to avoid traffic,” he says and opens the passenger’s door for me.

We are halfway to the apartment when Mikhail takes out his phone and calls someone. He’s speaking Russian again, and the only words I catch are “Ford Explorer”. The person on the other end says something, and then Mikhail cuts the call.

“We’re taking a small detour,” he says.

We keep a steady pace, driving for about twenty minutes. Soon enough, we leave the hustle and bustle of the city traffic behind, and there are fewer buildings fronting the highway. We're headed somewhere out of town. Suddenly, Mikhail floors the gas pedal. I grab the door handle and hold on as if my life depends on it. The speedometer on the dash starts climbing, fast, reaching almost one hundred miles per hour. Mikhail looks in the rearview mirror and makes a sharp right turn, taking a narrow dirt road. I look behind at the black Ford Explorer taking the same turn and speeding after us. Mikhail keeps driving, maintaining the distance for twenty more minutes, then turns onto another dirt road leading to a factory visible in the distance. His phone rings once, then stops.

“Take my phone,” he says. “Send a message to Denis. It’s the number I just called.”

I grab the phone, find the call in the log, and open a message window.

“Type… I need one of them alive.”

I tense, my fingers freezing above the keyboard for a second, then type the message and send it.

“Now, listen to me carefully,” he says, glancing at the rearview mirror again. “I’ll park in front of the factory. You lock yourself in, get down onto the floor, and don’t leave the car. No matter what. Do you understand?”