Hidden Truths: A Broken Hero Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 3)
Hidden Truths: Chapter 2

I’m lying under the truck, setting up the second pack of explosives when Mikhail curses somewhere on the other side.

“Sergei! Are you done?”

“Just one more,” I say.

“You put enough of that shit to blow up the whole damn street. Leave it and come here. The door is jammed.”

I roll out from under the truck and walk to the back where Mikhail is holding the cargo door open with the crowbar.

“Just keep it there, I’ll get the girl,” I say, turn on my phone’s flashlight, and jump up into the truck.

I walk around the boxes, moving them around as I pass, but I can’t see the girl.

“Is she there?” Mikhail asks.

“I can’t replace her. Are you sure she’s . . .”

There is something in the corner, but I can’t see what it is. I round a pile of crates and direct my light down. “Oh, fuck!”

I move the boxes so I can get closer and crouch in front of a curled-up body. The girl’s face is hidden under her arm. Her extremely thin arm. A night eight years ago surges through my mind, and I close my eyes trying to suppress the images of another girl, her thin body covered in dirt. The flashback passes.

I reach out to check the girl’s pulse, absolutely positive I won’t replace one when she stirs and removes her arm. Two impossibly dark eyes, so dark they look black in the light from my phone, stare at me.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”

The girl blinks, then coughs, and those magnificent eyes roll up and flutter closed. She’s fainted. I prop the phone on the box next to me, the light shining on her, and slide my arms under her frail body. My throat tightens as I lift her.

Dear God, she can’t weigh more than ninety pounds.

“Sergei?” Mikhail calls from the door.

“I’ve got her! Shit, she’s in bad shape.” I take my phone and, using it to light the way through the maze of boxes, carry her out. “I’ve got you,” I say into her ear, then look at Mikhail. “Hold that door.”

I jump down from the truck and head toward Mikhail’s car.

“I’ll call Varya and tell her to bring the doc.” Mikhail lets the truck door crash back down. “We can meet them at the safe house.”

“No,” I bark and pull the small body to my chest. “I’m taking her to my place.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

I stop and turn toward him. “I said I’m taking her with me.”

Mikhail stares at me, then shakes his head. “Whatever. Get her into the car, blow the truck, and let’s get out of here.”

I open the door and duck into the backseat, holding the girl securely in my arms, then bend and try to listen for her breathing. It’s shallow, but she’s alive. For now.

“Ready?” Mikhail asks from the driver’s seat, but I ignore him. “Jesus, Sergei! Get that fucking remote and blow the fucking truck already.”

I look up at him, debating if I should clock him upside the head for interrupting me, and decide against it. That wife of his must be crazy in love with him and his grumpy personality. She wouldn’t be happy if he came home with a lump on the side of his head and his ear looking like a hamburger.

I probably wouldn’t end up in a much better state. Mikhail is one strong motherfucker. I once witnessed him in a fight with three guys his size. It was fun to watch. I don’t remember for sure, but I think he was the only one who came out of that fight alive. I wonder how he lost his right eye as his left eye zeros in on me in the rearview mirror. I smirk, reach for the remote in my pocket, and press the button.

The epic boom pierces the night.

Angelina

Dark. Only dark. Suddenly, a strong light blinds me. Hushed words. Then, a big fat nothing for quite some time.

Light. Weightlessness. More hushed words, but I can’t decipher their meaning. Glaring light again. Dog barking. Voices. Three male. One female.

Weightlessness again. Water. Warm. On my body, and then in my hair. I sigh and feel myself drifting away. The water disappears, and suddenly I am so, so cold. Shivering. I try opening my eyes but fail. Something soft and warm envelops my body, then weightlessness again. Arms, big and strong, cradling me. Where am I? Who is carrying me? Adrift on the waves. To where?

The rocking stops, but the arms are still there. I’m cold again, trembling once more. The arms tighten around me and pull me into something warm and solid.

Hushed whispering. Female. Then, clipped deep words. Angry. Male. The arms clench, drawing me even closer. A pinch on the back of my hand. A slight pain. More words. Arguing. The language seems vaguely familiar. It’s not Spanish. Not English either. The truck was supposed to go to the Italians, but it’s not Italian I’m hearing, not even close.

“Idi na khuy, Albert!” a deep male voice snaps next to my ear.

My blood runs cold. How the hell did I end up with the Russians? My Russian is basic since I only took one semester, but I know enough to recognize the language.

I try opening my eyes again, but it’s even harder than before. Did they drug me? I’m losing consciousness again, and the last things I remember are hushed words next to my ear and a fresh woodsy scent of male cologne. I shouldn’t let myself drift while surrounded by these people, but the deep and soothing voice lulls me, and for some reason, the sound makes me feel safe. Sighing, I bury my face into the hard male chest and fall asleep in the arms of the enemy.

Sergei

I move the sleeping girl so her head rests on my shoulder and rearrange the blanket I wrapped her in. Focusing on her ghostly pale face, I lean back in the recliner. There are big circles around her eyes, and a few wet, unevenly cut strands of hair plastered to her cheek over the faded, yellow bruise. She looks like someone who has gone to hell and back.

“You can’t keep her here, my boy,” Varya, Roman’s housekeeper, says. “She needs medical attention.”

“The doc will stay here tonight. You can stay as well if you want.” I look up. “She is not going anywhere.”

Varya shakes her head and turns to the doc. “How serious is the girl’s condition?”

“Dehydration. And the beginnings of pneumonia. I gave her a shot of antibiotics. Give her these pills every day till Tuesday.” He hands me a bottle of meds and nods toward the IV bag Varya is holding. “She’ll also need another bag of saline tonight.”

“Anything else?”

“She will probably be sleeping till morning. When she wakes up, give her water and something to eat, but keep the food light for the first day. In general, she’s a healthy woman, and this”—he motions toward the girl in my arms—“is recent. They probably starved her.”

My body goes still. “You mean, she didn’t have enough food?” I stare at the doctor.

“I mean she either had very little or no food at all during the last five, six days. Maybe more.”

A burning sensation spreads through my body, starting from my stomach and then outward until it engulfs me. The room around me dims and transforms into a dark basement, the only light coming from my flashlight. There are crates and pieces of broken furniture scattered around. And bodies. At least ten girls, dirty and thin, lying around. My fault. All my fault. If I got in sooner instead of following orders, I might have saved them. I check their pulse, one by one, even though I know they are all dead. Each has a big red dot at the center of their foreheads. All except the last one. A barely audible moan leaves her lips when I press my finger onto her neck. She opens her eyes to look at me, and the pulse under my finger ceases to beat.

“Sergei?” Varya’s voice reaches me, but it sounds distant.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to block the new wave of images. My left hand starts shaking. Fuck. I grind my teeth and squeeze my eyelids together with all my might.

“Shit. Varya, get away from him. Slowly,” Felix barks from somewhere on the right. “Everybody out. Now.”

One deep breath. Then another. It doesn’t help. It feels like I’m going to explode. I hear people leaving and the door closing, but the sounds are mixed with ringing in my ears. The need to destroy something, anything, overcomes me as rage keeps building and building within.

The girl in my arms stirs and moves her head to the left, burying her face in my neck. Her breath on my skin feels like butterfly wings. The flashback fades. She sighs, then coughs. I open my eyes and look down at her, searching for signs of distress, but she seems okay.

I lean back in the recliner to make her more comfortable, pull the blanket over her bony shoulder, and notice my hand has stopped shaking. Tilting my head back, I stare at the ceiling and listen to her breathing, then I try to sync my much faster breaths with hers. The girl’s body twitches, and she coughs again.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” I whisper and tighten my arms around her.

She mumbles something I can’t decipher and places her hand on my chest, just above my heart. So small. And so damn thin. I could probably circle both of her wrists between my thumb and forefinger. I reach out and press my palm to the side of her neck, feeling the beat of her pulse under my fingers. It’s strong. She’ll pull through. The pressure that has been building inside of me slowly recedes.

Gazing at her face again, I tuck the wet strands of her hair behind her ear and regard her. Even starved nearly to death, she is beautiful. But, it’s not her beauty that attracts my attention. There is something in the lines of her face that seems familiar. I have an impeccable memory, and I am one hundred percent certain that I haven’t met her before, at least not in person. Still . . . I cock my head to the side, examining her black eyebrows, pert nose, and full lips. Trying to imagine how she looked before she was starved and spent three days on that truck. As if she feels my stare, she stirs, and for a fleeting second her eyes open and her unfocused dark gaze meets mine. And I remember.