Page 23 of The Bratva Sinner

I stare at the little dot that tells me she’s in Little Havana. She's not moving.

"I’m coming," I tell her. "I know where you are. Stay on the line."

Damien has the passenger door open by the time I reach the car. I shake my head and go around to the driver's side.

"Maksim, I won’t let you go alone.”

"Get in the other car." I slide into the Porsche. "Keep up."

He looks at the sky the way he does when he's exercising patience and goes to the SUV. They'll follow. They always do. I have a complicated relationship with security details — I grew up watching my father move through the world surrounded by an army. I swore I'd never live like that. I'm not Sergei, who carried the weight of succession, or Nikolai, who spent years in his shadow. I ditched my detail constantly as a kid, and they let me. I knew my place early. I embraced it.

I pull out of the lot and into traffic.

"Still with me?" I ask.

The breathing continues. She's there. Hurt? Or hiding?

"Good." I take a left. The GPS is on the dash. "Don't hang up. Don't move if you don't have to. I'm ten minutes away."

I’m driving too fast for the crowded streets, but I don’t care. I feel an urgency that has no name; the kind that lives in the body before the mind catches up. I've felt it once before, a long time ago, standing there, helpless to do anything about what was happening.

I take a corner so fast that my little car nearly goes up on two wheels. The SUV can’t keep up, but they’ll find me.

The street she's on is narrow and runs behind a row of apartment buildings. There’s a dumpster on one end and a chain-link fence on the other. I see the alley and hit the brakes.

I'm out of the car with the door open and the engine running.

She's sitting against the wall with her knees pulled up and one hand pressed to the side of her face. Relief hits me like a punch that I have no business feeling.

I run to her, not caring what the cracked, wet pavement costs my leather shoes, and crouch next to her, being careful not to crowd.

She looks up at me like she can’t believe I’m there. She’s been beaten. Her eye is an ugly purple with a huge bump swelling above it.

"Easy," I say quietly. "It’s me."

There's blood on her temple. Her lip is split at the corner. Her knees are bleeding. One fingernail is torn far below where it should be and is bleeding as well.

"Can you stand?"

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. I don't wait for her to try again. I slide one arm under her knees, one behind her back, and pick her up. She's lighter than she should be. She protests weakly and pushes against my chest.

"Don't," I tell her. “Let me.”

A tear slides out from the corner of her eye before her head drops against my shoulder. I feel her exhale, long and slow, like she's been holding that breath for too long.

I carry her to the SUV. Damien has the door open.

"Drive the Porsche back."

"Right behind you."

I get in with her and don't put her down. She doesn't ask me to. I cradle her as my security drives back to my estate. I know Damien will have called Cinder. I would have, but my phone is in my car.

Sampson hops out of the passenger seat when the SUV stops. He opens the back door and moves to take her from my arms, but I shake my head.

I carry her into the house. Cinder is standing in the foyer.

She takes one look at Lila and shakes her head.