"Nikita," I rasp, and my voice catches in my throat. The pit of my stomach plummets. What are those men doing here? What are they waiting for?
There's a white truck, big enough to move furniture or people. I've been told I have an overactive imagination, but I'm not sure that's a terrible fact, considering the company I'm being forced to keep.
"Just sit tight," he instructs. He kills the engine and climbs out of the pickup, taking his keys.
So much for trying to steal his vehicle. I suppose he doesn't trust me. It's for good reason, considering I've already stolen his key, and I was caught breaking and entering. Well, I was caught—the rest is a little fuzzier for me.
He greets the men, their voices muffled from inside the vehicle.
While Nikita isn't paying any attention to me, I gradually open the front door and slip out, careful not to make a sound. I leave the door open. If I shut it, he's bound to notice, and I take off on foot heading for the main road.
Sneaking out of the truck, I may have been quiet, but my footfalls as I run aren't the least bit silent.
"Fuck!" Nikita shouts as he notices my escape.
I don't look back. I can't. If I so much as glance over my shoulder, I could trip or slow, and neither is something I want to deal with right now.
I hurry to the street and weave through an alleyway, cutting across another neighborhood, ensuring Nikita won't spot me. The only problem is that Nikita isn't the only one going to be after me; the Italian Mafia will also be hunting me down.
I missed my deadline this morning to meet with Aleksandra and deliver the artifact. Aleksandra Moretti, at least I assume that's her last name. She didn't exactly give me all her information when she forced me into the job.
Aleksandra is wife to Antonio Moretti. He's the don of the Italian Mafia, and he's ruthless, or so I've been told.