Chapter 4 - The Fake Injury
Adrien had never pulled a muscle in his back.
The truth slammed into my skull like a freight train as Victor shoved me down
the rusty metal stairs of the building's fire escape.
Rain stung my eyes.
The cold wind bit through my thin silk dress.
Below us, the alley was black, slick with wet garbage and engine oil.
"Move your feet, Lena!" Victor commanded beneath his breath.
Above us, the third-floor apartment door blew off its hinges with a muted thump.
The men in the hallway had reached my home.
"He staged it," I gasped, leaping down the iron rungs, my knuckles turning white
against the railing.
"Six months ago. He walked into my studio limping."
"He didn't pull a muscle rowing," Victor said, right on my heels.
His massive hand gripped my elbow, steadying me as I nearly slipped on the wet
iron.
"He tore his lumbar when his airbag deployed. He hit the judge’s Mercedes at
eighty miles an hour."
We hit the wet concrete of the alley.
Victor didn't pause.
He dragged me toward the shadow of a commercial brick wall.
"The police were looking for a silver Maserati," Victor continued, his voice
steady despite the chaos.
"My car. Adrien stole the keys while I was in Milan. After he crashed, he parked
the wreck in my private hangar, wiped the steering wheel, and hid."
"Why didn't you go to the police?" I demanded, panting.
Victor glanced back at the third-floor window.
Flashlight beams danced across the ceiling of my apartment.
"Because Antonio protected him. My father buried the report. He told the feds I
was the primary suspect. If I talked, the family business would collapse under a
RICO indictment."
"So Adrien framed you."
"He tried to," Victor said coldly.
He pushed me through a narrow rusted gate into a secondary alleyway.
"Then he found out the traffic cameras at your studio caught the entire crash.
High-definition footage. Pointed right at the intersection."
My mind raced through the layout of my studio.
The security cameras outside the front door.
I had installed them myself after a string of break-ins last summer.
"He didn't come to my studio for yoga," I whispered, bile rising in my throat.
"He came for the hard drive."
"He came to see if you remembered his face," Victor corrected.
"When he realized you hadn't checked the street footage yet, he decided to keep
you close. A girlfriend doesn't testify against the man who buys her flowers."
A black armored SUV sat idling at the end of the alley, headlights off.
Victor pulled a key fob from his pocket.
The lights flashed amber once.
Suddenly, glass shattered above us.
A bullet sparked against the brick wall three inches from Victor’s ear.
Pfft. Pfft.
Subsonic rounds. Suppressed weapons.
"Down!" Victor roared.
He threw his massive frame over mine, slamming me against the cold wet pavement.
His body was an iron shield.
I felt the heat radiating off his chest.
I heard the sharp intake of his breath as a bullet grazed the heavy leather of
his jacket.
Victor rolled, pulling a matte-black Glock from his waistband in a single, fluid
motion.
He didn't hesitate.
He raised the weapon and squeezed the trigger twice toward the fire escape roof.
BANG! BANG!
The concussive blasts were deafening in the narrow alley.
A man screamed high above us.
A heavy body tumbled over the iron railing, crashing through the wooden awning
of the dumpster below.
Victor hauled me to my feet by my waist.
"Car. Now."
He opened the heavy passenger door of the armored SUV and shoved me inside.
I scrambled over the leather seats, shaking violently.
Victor slid behind the wheel, slammed the door, and stomped the accelerator.
The engine roared to life with the fury of a twin-turbo V8.
The SUV tore down the alley, clipping a metal trash container, and burst out
onto the empty Chicago avenue.
In the rearview mirror, my apartment building faded into the rain.
My phone sat on the console.
It vibrated violently.
The screen displayed a text notification.
From Adrien.
Victor glanced down at the screen.
"Read it," he ordered.
My fingers shook so hard I nearly dropped the phone.
I swiped the screen.
“You think he saved you, Lena? Check your studio cameras. Look at what he did to
the girl before you.”
I looked at Victor.
His jaw was tight.
His scarred hands clamped around the steering wheel like iron vices.
"Who was the girl before me, Victor?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the
roaring engine.
Victor didn't look at me.
His eyes remained fixed on the wet highway ahead.
May you like
"Her name was Claire," he said, his tone devoid of warmth.
"And Adrien made sure she never testified either."
