Page 69 of Savage Boss
My first attempt at reaching Pavel fails. So does my second.
The fact that Pavel is silent in this moment of crisis is a problem of astronomical scale. It's not just an inconvenience; it feels like an absence in the very structure of my carefully built defense. I place the phone back into my pocket, my thin veneer of control shattering for a moment, replaced by a deep, terrifying fury.
From my vantage point, I can see Clara, who is surrounded by Emily, Michael, and the EMT. I should be thinking about thebratvameeting tonight, a crucial night that couldspelldisaster for me if I take one wrong step, but all I can think about right now is retribution. Retribution for the fact that someone has not only made an attempt on my life, but on Clara’s andour child’s for the third time. That someone is using her life to send a very pointed message to me and to everyone else on thebratvacouncil.
The ringing in my ears is slowly beginning to fade, giving way to radios, the scrape of boots on concrete, andhoarsecommands from the uniformed bodies around us. I look at Clara, her facepale but resolute, and then at Michael, who's focused on a phone call.
I know I'm going to war tonight, whatever the outcome of the convocation. But not before I see Clara safeand untouchable, no matter how she feels about it. Because I will do whatever it takes to protect her and our child.
32
CLARA
“Stay close.”
Dmitri’s rumble is a command more than a request, and I’m too worn out and shaken to argue.
We’ve pulled into an underground garage I don’t recognize, in a part of the city I rarely, if ever, visit. I haven’t even asked what we’re doing here, because it’s impossible not to know.
The slamming car doors echo in the concrete silence. Dmitri is at my side in an instant, one hand heavy at the small of my back, the other on his holstered firearm. He leads me to an elevator that opens with the flash of a key card, revealing sleek, golden luxuriousness.
But to me, it feels like a cage, gilded and inescapable, as it lifts us to our destination.
For the first time, I notice how rough Dmitri looks. His cuts and scrapes are still raw and red. He’s discarded his suit jacket, dirty and torn, but even the shirt beneath, which was once crisp and white, is smudged with dirt, blood, and the same black dust thatsmudges his cheek and mine. His eyes are more cold gray than blue.
Not that I look much better. My dress is ripped, my cheek has a bruise on it, my head aches from where it hit the wall, and the circles under my eyes are so dark, it looks like I painted them on with makeup.
Like Dmitri’s penthouse, this elevator opens directly into the entryway of the top-floor suite.
A large man in a dark suit waits outside the door. I haven’t seen him before, but I sense the danger and menace that radiates from him. It sends a shiver down my spine. Dmitri guides me through the door after the man opens it for us with a stiff nod to Dmitri.
The place is stunning—minimalist design, panoramic windows overlooking the glittering city, art too abstract to mean anything.
It’s about as warm and welcoming as an ice chip in the middle of winter.
“You will stay here—no calls, no deliveries, no texts, no visitors. Smirnov men are outside this door, in the parking garage, on the roof, and on the floors above and below, as well as in the lobby. If you need anything, speak to them.”
There is too much information being shot at me rapid fire to understand, too much for my exhausted and traumatized brain to keep up with and process.
“I’m keeping you safe, Clara. So for right now, you stay here and you do not leave until I’ve finished this.”
Finished this.The words send another chill down my spine, even as Dmitri walks me to the bedroom dominated by a massive bed, dark wood furniture, and dark walls.
He turns and looks at me, really looks at me for the first time since before the bomb went off. His eyes are molten steel, a ruthless danger within them. I can’t help but flinch when he reaches out, his thumb brushing away a smudge from my cheek.
“I need you to see the doctor.”
“You’re going to let me go out to see her?”
“No, not her, not there. Here. A doctor who won’t say anything to anyone.”
Not an OB, but a doctor who takes care of people who can’t go to the hospital, wounds that shouldn’t be seen by people who will report it. The kind of care that leaves no trace or police reports. The type of doctor who knows how to check for head trauma, internal bleeding, and treat a bullet or knife wound in silence.
“I’m fine.” My voice is raspy, and I almost don’t recognize it. “The baby is fine. We’re both fine. I don’t need to see anyone.”
“I’m not taking any chances. The doctor is already waiting.”
With his hand firmly on my lower back, his tone of voice and set expression, I know there is no arguing with Dmitri right now.
