I Fed a Mafia Boss’s Starving Baby on a Private Jet—Then He Told Me I Could Never Leave
Nikolai noticed.
He noticed everything.
“I can,” he said. “But I would prefer that you understand why first.”
“I understand enough.”
“No. You understand fear. Fear is rarely the same as truth.”
I laughed once, a sharp, humorless sound.
“You just told me I can’t go home while three armed men block the exit.”
“They’re not blocking the exit.”
I looked toward the stairs.
The guard stepped aside.
The path was clear.
For one hopeful instant, I thought Nikolai was releasing me.
Then he said, “Walk out.”
I hesitated.
“You’re free to try.”
Something in his voice stopped me.
I looked through the open door.
Beyond the stairs, the airfield stretched toward a chain-link fence. A row of black SUVs waited on the tarmac, their engines running. Farther away, near a service building, two police vehicles sat beneath yellow lights.
I almost moved.
Then headlights appeared beyond the fence.
A dark sedan rolled slowly along the perimeter road.
Nikolai turned his head toward the window.
One of his men touched a finger to his earpiece.
The sedan stopped.
Its lights went out.
The guard beside the door moved so quickly I barely saw his hand reach beneath his coat.
Nikolai looked back at me.
“That vehicle has followed us since London.”
My pulse stumbled.
“That’s impossible.”
