8. Dima.

**X-rated Image.**

“Easy, Pakhan. You've wounds remember?” Leonid's voice booms into my ears as I pummel my right fist into the punch bag while he pummels the punch bag too from the other side with one of his hands.

Beads of sweat drizzle down my skin as I channel all my focus on the exercise I’m carrying out. After our flight from the hospital two days ago, my mind has been entirely brimmed with different thoughts, starting from the mastermind of the attack and the girl whose Slavic face has stuck to my head like an X-rated image.

Fuck. Fuck.

I can’t douse the curiosity ricocheting through me about finding out who the girl is but I haven’t so much as slip out of this hideout I and my men were able to secure after we fled from the hospital.

After our arrival in the States, we lodged in an upscale bed and breakfast in Brooklyn but following the clusterfuck at the club and the Feds implacable efforts in laying their fucking hands on me, I had second thoughts about spending a damn night