Page 48 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
Right?
Still, a small knot forms in my stomach as I stare down into my drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass.
“Vodka.”
The sharp voice snaps at the bartender, and I turn.
Sergei has stepped up beside me.
He nods once in acknowledgment. “Mrs. Rusnak.”
I flash him a bright smile—far warmer than anything I’ve ever shown him before—and shift slightly on the stool to face him.
“We haven’t really talked, have we?” I say lightly.
He looks faintly uncomfortable, as if he didn’t expect me to engage him in conversation at all.
“No,” he says. “We haven’t.”
“Well,” I continue, “I’ve never really thanked you for saving my life. Twice now.”
For a moment, he looks almost amused.
“It was your husband who saved you,” he replies. “I was simply following instructions.”
I shake my head.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I still appreciate it.”
His expression softens just slightly. “You’re welcome.”
I keep the conversation going, letting my tone stay easy and casual while my mind quietly shifts into a different gear. I listen carefully—his cadence, the way he forms his sentences, the rhythm of his speech.
I want to memorize it.
As a forensic linguist, patterns matter.
“Both attacks were very scary,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “I hope we find the people responsible very soon.”
“We’re working on it,” Sergei replies calmly.
“Have you gotten any new information yet?” I ask.
He pauses briefly before answering.
“Only a few leads,” he says. “Mike is working day and night to make sure it’s handled.”
The bartender sets his drink in front of him.
Sergei picks up the glass.
“I have to go,” he says.
I nod politely. “Of course.”
He gives a small nod in return before turning and disappearing back into the crowd.
I watch him leave, my fingers slowly rotating the glass on the bar as my thoughts continue to turn.
