"Aria, you had me hooked the moment you stood in front of me in the VIP booth back at Volt. Then you had me whipped when you were sprawled across my desk a panting mess." His lips brush mine and I want nothing more than to lean forward and close the...
I reread the texts that Aria sent me about two weeks ago. I feel a bit bad that Dani had to see that photo, but I still don't regret sending it.
I lean against the polished black SUV with Ric standing next to as we wait for Dom to finish up with his little interrogation on a Russian mafia member. We've been waiting for about 30 minutes and depending on how stubborn this guy is or how hard Dom decides to punch the fucker, determines how much longer I'll be standing here.
My nose and finger are numb from the cold Moscow air. The only thing keeping me slightly warm is the light buzz I have from the blunt that still sits between my fingers.
Who knew saving children would be stressful?
Dom's large frame ducks under the doorframe of the front door with his back turned to me. He holds a large kerosene can in his hands as he spills the contents on the ground.
By the time he reaches us, the can is empty. He throws the can off to the side and pulls a box of matches out from his pocket. His leather-clad hands strike a match and he throws it at the house. The dull sky is lit up within seconds and the screams of the man inside are faintly heard over the cracking in the wood as it burns.
Ric whistles in awe as he stares at the flame, before taking a draw of his own blunt. I turn to my brother to see a slight smile on his face as the roof of the house finally caves in and the screaming stops.
"Davay malysh," Dom calls out into the woodland that surrounds us. A little boy, no older than 10 emerges from the trees. He's wearing old, dirty clothes that are too small for him. His hair falls in an untidy mess on his forehead which he is continuously brushing away with his hand. He doesn't even have a coat on. (Come out kid.)
I discard the blunt and open the back door of the SUV. Pulling out a thick wool blanket and I slowly approach the tiny boy. We've learnt from the past to always keep a stash of blankets in the car for events like this. He's definitely malnourished. His legs might as well be twigs and if I was to grab his wrists I could fit both in one hand and there'd still be room for another two.
"Angliyskiy?" I ask quietly, not wanting to scare the poor boy. I hold out the blanket for the boy to take at arm's length. He shakes his head slightly, telling me he doesn't speak an ounce of English. (English?)
With the past few houses and warehouses that we've infiltrated and destroyed, we've recovered about 20 young girls from as young as 5 to as old as 19 years old. This is the first boy we've come across though.
"Voz'mi eto. My otvezem tebya v bezopasnoye i teploye mesto." I say to the boy as I crouch down on the snow-covered grass. The boy takes the heavy blanket and wraps it around his shoulders. He sways slightly at the weight of the blanket. I quickly reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder to steady him. Even under the thick blanket, I can feel his bones. He tenses under my touch. (Take it. We will take you to a safe and warm place.)
