Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(28)

I nod and try to control the panic building in my chest.

“If things go south, you start the car and leave. Go downtown, park somewhere crowded, and wait. Someone will come to pick you up as soon as possible. The car has GPS tracking.”

And leave him in the middle of nowhere? Is he insane? How will he get back?

“Do you understand what I’m saying, solnyshko?”

I don’t plan on leaving him, but it’s not the best moment to have that discussion, so I nod.

“Good.”

The car screeches to a stop in front of the factory entrance. Mikhail takes off his sunglasses, reaches under his seat, and takes out a gun.

“Lock yourself in.”

He jumps out and slams the door closed behind him, and then he’s gone.





I run inside the abandoned factory, cock the gun, and stand by the broken window, which gives me a direct view of the road and the entrance gate. The vehicle that followed us rushes through the gate a moment later and stops about five yards from my car. No one gets out for a couple of minutes. They’re probably debating what to do. Eventually, one of the back doors opens and a man gets out, holding a gun at the ready. He aims for the back window of my car, and shoots. Nothing happens, so he tries three more times.

It’s an armored car, you idiot.

I throw a quick look toward the gate. Where the fuck is Denis? If I start shooting, they might hightail it out of here, and we’ll lose them.

The other back door opens and a bald man in his forties gets out, carrying a shotgun. Shit. I’m not sure how many rounds the glass can take, and I don’t plan on risking Bianca’s life. I aim at the bald guy’s head, visible above the car door, and shoot. His head jerks backward and he crumbles to the ground at the same moment I off the second guy. There are a few seconds of silence, then the two front doors open. I duck before the driver and another guy open fire in my direction.

Glass from the window starts raining on top of me. One of the larger pieces embeds itself into my back, up by my shoulder. I reach back and take it out, slicing my hand in the process.

An engine comes to life, and for a second, I think Denis has finally arrived. But the sound is too close. A second later there is a sound of a crush and the gunfire ceases. I look through the window and shake my head. My sophisticated little wife has just rammed the pursuers’ vehicle.

I rush out of the building and run toward the shooters, who are lying on the ground. Their doors must have been open when Bianca hit them. Seems like the driver is more or less unscathed, already reaching for his gun that’s lying on the ground a few feet from him. I shoot him in the head before he gets to it, collect the gun, and circle the car. The last guy is crouched on the ground, vomiting. Based on the amount of blood at the back of his head, he hit it pretty hard. I kick his gun away from him when I hear the sound of another approaching car. Five seconds later, Denis parks behind me and jumps out.

“I see you have everything already handled, boss.” He smiles like an idiot.

“Where the fuck were you?”

“I took a wrong turn. Sorry, boss.”

I curse and point to the other three bodies. “Check them. Then call for a cleanup.” I turn toward the vomiting guy. “Bag this one and take him to the east warehouse. I’ll question him tomorrow. Call the doc in to see him, if necessary. I need him alive.”

I turn around and head off toward my car.





The first thing my husband says when he opens the door after I just saved his life?

“You smashed my taillights.”

I raise my eyebrows, snort, and move over into the passenger’s seat. Mikhail gets in, and when he reaches to turn on the car, I notice the blood on his right hand. I suck in a sharp breath and place my hand over his. He lets go of the keys and lets me inspect his palm. There is dirt mixed with the blood. I can’t see where he is bleeding from, and I don’t want to risk making it worse by trying to brush the dirt away. I take the hem of my T-shirt, tear a piece of the material, and then carefully wrap it around his hand. When I look up, I find him watching me. I point to myself, then to the wheel.

“It’s just a scratch, Bianca. I can drive,” he says and starts the car.

Mikhail spends the entire trip back to his place talking to someone over the speakerphone. I’m not sure who it is, but the voice is familiar, probably their pakhan. I have no idea what’s said because the whole conversation happens in Russian, so I lean back in my seat and close my eyes.

I’ve been shot at. Again. In less than a month. Will this become a norm for me now? Being married into the Bratva seems to be much more life-threatening than I expected. So why the hell am I not more shaken by that fact? I open my eyes just a sliver and watch my husband. There is something incredibly sexy in the way Mikhail speaks Russian, he sounds less guarded. I don’t know if it’s because he is using his native language or because he’s close with Petrov. Will he ever be that relaxed with me?

Mikhail parks the car in the underground garage, and when he leans to open his door, I notice a red stain on the beige leather seat. He’s hurt. Why hasn’t he said anything, damn it? I follow him with my eyes and spot a wet stain on his shirt, near his left shoulder blade. What the fuck is wrong with him? I jump from my seat, slam the car door, and look up at him.

“Mad at me again?”