Page 24 of The Mafia Bachelor

The other women are screaming. Except Jemma, who slides in next to me.

“Get in!” There’s a combination of shouts and yells of the Russian men and fearful cries in response.

“They’re the bratva,” Jemma hisses. “The most ruthless of the mafias. Russian. We need to get a gun.”

My heart vibrates. My brain stalls.

I haven’t got the capacity for this. I’m shaking. I didn’t sign up for being kidnapped and… Imagination is an issue. The things that roll through my head aren’t pretty.

I don’t want to die.

“We’re not going to die,” Jemma whispers back, and it’s only then I realise she’s replying to me and I said that aloud.

One of the vehicles roars off in a screech of wheels. There are more shots, and shouts.

“In the car,” the Russian man’s voice repeats.

I’m so torn. I search for somewhere better to hide, but there’s nothing. And the other women… “We should help them.” I glance across to Jemma, my words hardly more than mouthing.

Jemma’s jaw sets. “We need a gun.”

“Where are the rest of these girls?” the same Russian man asks. His voice is sinister, and growing closer. The slow, heavy thud of his feet is underlaid by my pulse going at what feels like twenty beats for every one step.

Then there’s a shout, engines and guns pop, and the Russian falls to the ground just next to us, with a curse, blood splattering on his chest.

I slap my hand across my mouth to prevent a shriek of terror as the gun fire continues.

“Bratva bastards,” Kill growls, and the fear is immediately worse and better. He’s here. He’s here.

But now he’s in danger too.

The urge to break cover and run to Kill is almost as irresistible as it is insane. But I look to the side, over the fallen Russian… And something sparks in my mind as the fight continues around us.

This isn’t right…

“Get his gun!”

My brain crackles.

“Now!” Jemma says again.

“It’s paint,” I breathe.

“What?” Her eyes are wild, then follows my gaze and sees it too. The red paint. Not blood.

The man lying on the ground, apparently dead, opens his eyes, winks, then closes them.

Jemma gives a gleeful hoot as she dives for the gun, then back undercover and pulling it to her shoulder and shooting around the side of our cover like she’s in a thriller movie.

Another barrage of shots fired, then silence and groans.

Kill laughs. “I think that’s all the ‘baddies’ finished, well done.”

There are a couple of half-hearted protests, and some whoops of celebration, along with a variety of swearing in several different languages.

“I was sure we were going to get you,” grumbles the Russian next to us, sitting up and attempting to wipe the red paint from his otherwise crisp white shirt.

Quick footsteps, and Kill is in front of us, offering a hand to Jemma and me to help us up. We both take the offer, Jemma keeping hold of the paint gun and grinning.