The Extraordinary Adventure of Zlatan Ibrahimovic and Margravine di Chiave Lowenstein - PART 1/4
Author: kitty69lover
Rating: overall, R or NC-17. dunno how to rate het-sex these days.
Category: action comedy with a dash of drama.
Characters: Zlatan Ibrahimovic & OFC Margravine di Chiave Lowenstein. made up minor characters.
Length: short story - 4 parts (the epilogue isn't relevant, won't be posted)
Originally posted on: 09.08.2009
Summary: Zlatan and Margravine go though some serious life threatening adventures before realizing the chemistry between them - Imagine an Indiana Jones type adventure, only that initially boy and girl hate each other's guts
Disclaimer: this is fiction. i make no profit
Authors Notes: a Indiana Jones movies tribute. elements from DC Comics universe in the later parts. Margravine di Chiave Lowenstein is a minor character in Thomas Pynchon's V, her name alone inspiring this story.
Part I
She got up and took off her shoes, then tried to wring the water out of her dress. The torches were unharmed, but they were both soaked in filth. She looked at her dress that was now completely ruined and then at him. Her eyes grew darker with anger.
“I'm not spending ONE more minute with you!” She yelled and the narrow walls of the underground tunnel carried her echo.
She threw the shoes at him to underline her true feelings and he had to duck twice to avoid the pointy ends of her stilettos. He noted that he should never piss off a woman in high heels, but otherwise remained quiet.
She didn't give him a second look, but spun on her now bare heels and took steps towards the other side of the tunnel, in ankle high dirty water. She strode majestically, and he had to watch her small figure depart into the darkness, carrying the makeshift torch with her.
She didn't get too far though. She let out a bloodcurdling scream and rushed back. And he left his torch on firm ground and rushed to the rescue. They met halfway through, she emerged from the dark, having lost her torch, and she threw herself in his arms.
“What happened?” he asked, quite worried as she seemed indeed very shaken up.
“Dead people...skeletons...” she managed through sobs.
And there they were, finally embraced after the events that had both antagonized and united them throughout the day. But what were the professional football player and the Lombard countess doing in the Barcelona sewers, soaking wet and fearing for their lives?
It all started with a quarrel over a cab.
The taxi was neatly parked just in front of one of the stores. She emerged loaded with shopping bags while he was only a few steps away, trying to avoid the kids asking for autographs. They both saw the available black and yellow car at the same time and both made a run for it, without noticing each other until the second they almost collided.
She reached for the door handle just as his body covered it.
“My cab!” she yelled, annoyed.
“I saw it first!” he replied, just as angry.
He had to look well below him at the young woman with his teammate’s wild curly hair, only a slightly lighter shade of brown. She was dressed in a summer dress, a sexy replica of a female navy uniform from the 50s. The nerve of the woman was tremendous, he thought.
She had to look way up to see who the offender was. She offered him her dark blue eyes and she had to take in the first thing that caught her attention - his enormous nose. He was in a casual black t-shirt and jeans. She decided he was an asshole.
“Look, be nice and let me take it, after all, it’d be gentlemanlike of you.” she ordered, not keen to carry her shopping much longer.
She was right, he thought. She was a woman, and loaded with bags, she should take the cab. But her tone…infuriated him. She wasn’t asking politely, she was demanding, insinuating he’s anything but a gentleman while at it too.
“Well, I don’t need to be a gentleman, I am Zlatan Ibravimovic.” He announced, shifting his body so that she’d have to let go of the handle.
He watched in horror how the woman remained unphased by his name. How was it possible? After the magnitude of his welcome in Barcelona, he was more than shocked that someone didn’t know who he was.
“So?” the woman answered after a while.
Was that name supposed to mean something? Was he someone famous? She rolled her eyes at him, even if he was, she was still a woman with packages.
“I am Countess Margravine di Chiave Lowenstein, I’m more than entitled to get the cab!” She suddenly said, elbowing him with her spare hand, as he was beginning to press his body on her hand holding the handle and it rather hurt.
“Who? What?” he started laughing, highly amused at her hilarious and stupidly pompous name.
He was almost decided to pick her up and put her back on the sidewalk, as un-gentlemanlike that might have been and get away, as the crowd their dispute was attracting was getting nearer and nearer.
“Señor Zlatan, Lady, why don’t you two share?” the driver emerging from the car suddenly offered.
“HA!” he let out a victorious cry, happy that his fame was still intact.
She pursed her lips piercing him with a devastatingly sarcastic stare. Share? With the brutish bastard? She’d rather walk.
“I don’t think sharing is a good idea.” She said coldly to the driver.
“You’re breaking my heart, your highness!” Zlatan mocked.
“You’re breaking my arm, you jerk! And highness is for royalty, which I am not!” she had to correct him.
“I can certainly see that.” He replied, sarcastically. “Seriously, we should get out of here, it’s not looking good.” He looked around and her gaze followed to encompass the soon to be mob.
She realized she needed to get in that car no matter what: her feet were killing her, and now her arms too. She looked sternly at him, as he was supposed to get out of the way so she could open the door.
He eventually did so, and she opened the door and slid inside, trying to fit all the bags as well. He held the door widely open, preventing her from shutting it before he got in. He wanted to take the front passenger’s seat, but some kids were already approaching shouting his name excitedly, so he hurriedly got inside, closed the door and the car took off almost immediately.
The first 10 minutes passed uneventfully, in dead silence. None of them had given the driver any address and he was randomly taking them to Plaça Catalunya. Once he got there, he’d ask them for directions.
She had been watching him with the corner of her eye, while he looked straight in front.
“Are you cross-eyed because of that gigantic nose?” she enquired.
He took the burn by clenching his fists on the front seat’s headrest, and by changing his head position.
Of course, his nose was still visible and she let out a giggle. He could not take that second insult in the space of a few seconds and snarled at her.
“Why are you such a stuck up bitch?”
She stared at him for a while. She could almost feel the electricity in his well-built body. Despite the nose, or maybe because of it, he was quite attractive. He emanated a fierce, primitive sexuality, especially when he was angry. The fit body and the height added to the beast impression.
She shook her thoughts away, disgusted to find herself imagining scenes with such a Lombrosian man. She was used with polite men and had never been exposed to the underbelly of the society, a place the man she had to share the cab with had certainly crawled from.
He held her gaze, scanning her, noticing that the curls flowed around perfectly chiseled cheekbones; her face was bony, with pleasantly sharp features. Her deep eyes reminded him of the dark waters of the Baltic Sea when he was a young boy fascinated with the seas. She had a certain grace that was usually annulled by her obnoxiousness. She’d be nice like a doll if she’d shut up.
He tore his gaze from her, the woman was certainly not his type. She oozed that disgusting brand of arrogance he always hated on others - the arrogance by birth. So she was a countess…big fucking deal, she was no better than a street whore with her mouthy style.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked the driver.
He was going to ask the same thing, and he couldn’t help himself from being annoyed that she had done it before him.
The driver did not respond. They were certainly no longer going towards Plaça Catalunya. The area seemed like an ill famed one, with dirty streets and decaying buildings.
“Where are we going?” he repeated her question.
Still there was no answer, as the car drove into a dead end and stopped.
“Where are we?” they both asked at the same time.
Fear crawled up her spine and she held her purse close to her body. He began to worry. The driver was whispering something.
“Speak up! Where are we, what is the meaning of this?” she yelled, panicking.
He tried to get out, but the door on his side was locked. They finally looked at each other; finally realizing something very wrong was about to happen.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” the driver’s litany turned louder and louder.
“What is going on!!” Zlatan grabbed the man's shoulders and shook him, furiously.
That’s when the driver pulled out of his grasp and burst out the door, still shouting his apologies.
No longer blocked by the man's body, they saw it, a bomb, strapped to the steering wheel. Only 30 seconds till detonation. They needed to get out of there.
“Quickly!!”
They both reached to cross into the front seat at the same time. They looked at each other with hatred in their eyes, this time it was not a matter of education or arrogance prompting each of them to want to get out as fast as possible, it was the survival instinct.
He looked at the bomb’s display, 5 seconds wasted….
“Go!” he said.
She crawled into the drivers seat and then out of the car, walking away from it without looking back. He followed, but it wasn’t as easy. His big body was not facile to maneuver in the small space. He was almost stuck.
He didn’t want to die. He looked at the display: only 15 seconds remained.
“Margravine!!!!!” he yelled after the departing woman.
She stopped. Took one step forward, stopped again and eventually turned around. He could not read her expression, but he knew he was at her mercy. He hated her for having to think about it, but he needed her help.
“Please, help me!” he yelled again, desperately, as the seconds flew by, he didn't care how he came across, he would've begged if that's what it took.
She walked towards him, her face blank of any emotion and begun helping him untangle from the seatbelt. Her smaller hands managed to loosen him and he was free with 2 seconds left.
They ran, but the explosion caught them near enough to throw them to the ground. Debris flew all over them, and they remained on the asphalt for a while, trying to recover from the shock of the blow.
Finally, he got up and helped her as well. They stood in front of each other, looking at the burning car. She had scraped both her knees in the fall and blood was already forming a crust on the left one, while it flowed down her right leg. Her hair was singed, and tears formed in her eyes while running her fingers through it.
He realized his was as well, but he wasn’t going to cry about it. He was more worried that there had been an attempted assassination. Someone wanted him dead. Or…wasn’t she a countess? Maybe the beef was with her, and he would’ve been collateral damage. He felt infuriated.
“This is ALL your fault!” she yelled, shocking him out of his reverie.
“What? No way, why would anyone want to kill me?” he voiced the questions inside his head.
“Didn’t you say you’re famous?! The driver knew your name!” she countered, pointing a bony finger with a formerly long now broken fuchsia nail in his face.
“Don’t point that at me!” he yelled back, grabbing her arm and moving it to the side rather harshly. “I’m famous, yes, but I’m a footballer!!”
“You’re HURTING me!” she shouted and jerked her hand out of his grasp.
He let go immediately, realizing he was dealing with a frail woman, not with a 150 kg K1 fighter.
“Maybe YOU were the target!” he said quietly, but harshly.
She gawked at him, giving up on inspecting the state of her once so great dress.
“Aren’t you a countess? With some fancy name?” he stared at her.
“Yes. But…I have no political ties…” she barely whispered, shocked by his allegations.
“So, there is no-one that would want to kill you?” he pressed on, feeling he may have hit a nerve.
The woman suddenly looked stripped of her arrogant confidence. Was she hiding anything? He had to know.
“No.” she said plainly.
He didn’t believe her, there was something unsettling about the way she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Of course, he failed to notice that her attention was on her bruised knees.
“I’m sure everyone just LOVES your sparkling personality!” he bit.
“Shut up. You don’t know anything about me!” her hand moved in a slapping motion carried only halfway through.
He remained silent, she was right; he had no right to judge her.
“What about you, Mr. Smartypants Famous Footballer? Are you sure no-one is after your sweet ass?” she verbally slapped him.
“Well, unless it’s a Real…”
But they were interrupted by gunfire. Instinctively, he grabbed her hand and ran out of the dead end street. Shots were coming from everywhere she thought: whoever wanted to kill them was certainly not slacking off.
But why would anyone want to kill them? This was what both of them pondered while they ran and ran on various streets, until they seemed to have lost their deadly tail.
“Stop, Stop, STOP!!” she yelled, using all her force to stop the bulky athlete from his sprint.
“What?!” he finally came to a halt.
Little Miss Congeniality was catching her breath, and loudly so. He could tell she was not used to intense physical effort. And the high heel sandals weren’t helping either.
“I’m not a frigging professional athlete!” she finally said when her breath returned to normal.
“I thought even normal people gave their best in a life or death scenario…” he mocked.
“Damn you, don’t make fun of me when you’re nearly getting me killed!!” she hissed.
“Me? Listen, Margravine, for all I know, it is you that’s most likely to be the cause of all this. And frankly, I don’t like the idea of getting killed because of someone like you either!”
He towered her physically and now morally as well. She didn't cower though, but held his gaze just as accusingly as before.
“Stop saying my name like that! ZLATAN!” she countered, readjusting the strap of her shoulder bag.
“Oh dear. We’re running the risk of dying and you’re pissed off over how I say your name?”
“Listen, Ibrahimovic…”
But she had to stop and scream, as suddenly there was a gun pointed at her head. They had been so caught up in their silly bickering that they had not heard the men approach. It was 3 of them, dressed in black, with ninja hoods, holding guns.
“What do you want with us?” he asked, fear insinuating in his voice as much as he tried to keep his calm.
Instead of an answer, one of the men tilted his head to the right and the guy closest to Zlatan, knocked him out by hitting him with the gun.
Margravine shouted in shock and fear, but she received the same blow to the head. The unconscious bodies were loaded into a black van that had appeared practically out of nowhere. Together with their cargo, the men took off to their destination.
Rating: overall, R or NC-17. dunno how to rate het-sex these days.
Category: action comedy with a dash of drama.
Characters: Zlatan Ibrahimovic & OFC Margravine di Chiave Lowenstein. made up minor characters.
Length: short story - 4 parts (the epilogue isn't relevant, won't be posted)
Originally posted on: 09.08.2009
Summary: Zlatan and Margravine go though some serious life threatening adventures before realizing the chemistry between them - Imagine an Indiana Jones type adventure, only that initially boy and girl hate each other's guts
Disclaimer: this is fiction. i make no profit
Authors Notes: a Indiana Jones movies tribute. elements from DC Comics universe in the later parts. Margravine di Chiave Lowenstein is a minor character in Thomas Pynchon's V, her name alone inspiring this story.
Part I
She got up and took off her shoes, then tried to wring the water out of her dress. The torches were unharmed, but they were both soaked in filth. She looked at her dress that was now completely ruined and then at him. Her eyes grew darker with anger.
“I'm not spending ONE more minute with you!” She yelled and the narrow walls of the underground tunnel carried her echo.
She threw the shoes at him to underline her true feelings and he had to duck twice to avoid the pointy ends of her stilettos. He noted that he should never piss off a woman in high heels, but otherwise remained quiet.
She didn't give him a second look, but spun on her now bare heels and took steps towards the other side of the tunnel, in ankle high dirty water. She strode majestically, and he had to watch her small figure depart into the darkness, carrying the makeshift torch with her.
She didn't get too far though. She let out a bloodcurdling scream and rushed back. And he left his torch on firm ground and rushed to the rescue. They met halfway through, she emerged from the dark, having lost her torch, and she threw herself in his arms.
“What happened?” he asked, quite worried as she seemed indeed very shaken up.
“Dead people...skeletons...” she managed through sobs.
And there they were, finally embraced after the events that had both antagonized and united them throughout the day. But what were the professional football player and the Lombard countess doing in the Barcelona sewers, soaking wet and fearing for their lives?
It all started with a quarrel over a cab.
The taxi was neatly parked just in front of one of the stores. She emerged loaded with shopping bags while he was only a few steps away, trying to avoid the kids asking for autographs. They both saw the available black and yellow car at the same time and both made a run for it, without noticing each other until the second they almost collided.
She reached for the door handle just as his body covered it.
“My cab!” she yelled, annoyed.
“I saw it first!” he replied, just as angry.
He had to look well below him at the young woman with his teammate’s wild curly hair, only a slightly lighter shade of brown. She was dressed in a summer dress, a sexy replica of a female navy uniform from the 50s. The nerve of the woman was tremendous, he thought.
She had to look way up to see who the offender was. She offered him her dark blue eyes and she had to take in the first thing that caught her attention - his enormous nose. He was in a casual black t-shirt and jeans. She decided he was an asshole.
“Look, be nice and let me take it, after all, it’d be gentlemanlike of you.” she ordered, not keen to carry her shopping much longer.
She was right, he thought. She was a woman, and loaded with bags, she should take the cab. But her tone…infuriated him. She wasn’t asking politely, she was demanding, insinuating he’s anything but a gentleman while at it too.
“Well, I don’t need to be a gentleman, I am Zlatan Ibravimovic.” He announced, shifting his body so that she’d have to let go of the handle.
He watched in horror how the woman remained unphased by his name. How was it possible? After the magnitude of his welcome in Barcelona, he was more than shocked that someone didn’t know who he was.
“So?” the woman answered after a while.
Was that name supposed to mean something? Was he someone famous? She rolled her eyes at him, even if he was, she was still a woman with packages.
“I am Countess Margravine di Chiave Lowenstein, I’m more than entitled to get the cab!” She suddenly said, elbowing him with her spare hand, as he was beginning to press his body on her hand holding the handle and it rather hurt.
“Who? What?” he started laughing, highly amused at her hilarious and stupidly pompous name.
He was almost decided to pick her up and put her back on the sidewalk, as un-gentlemanlike that might have been and get away, as the crowd their dispute was attracting was getting nearer and nearer.
“Señor Zlatan, Lady, why don’t you two share?” the driver emerging from the car suddenly offered.
“HA!” he let out a victorious cry, happy that his fame was still intact.
She pursed her lips piercing him with a devastatingly sarcastic stare. Share? With the brutish bastard? She’d rather walk.
“I don’t think sharing is a good idea.” She said coldly to the driver.
“You’re breaking my heart, your highness!” Zlatan mocked.
“You’re breaking my arm, you jerk! And highness is for royalty, which I am not!” she had to correct him.
“I can certainly see that.” He replied, sarcastically. “Seriously, we should get out of here, it’s not looking good.” He looked around and her gaze followed to encompass the soon to be mob.
She realized she needed to get in that car no matter what: her feet were killing her, and now her arms too. She looked sternly at him, as he was supposed to get out of the way so she could open the door.
He eventually did so, and she opened the door and slid inside, trying to fit all the bags as well. He held the door widely open, preventing her from shutting it before he got in. He wanted to take the front passenger’s seat, but some kids were already approaching shouting his name excitedly, so he hurriedly got inside, closed the door and the car took off almost immediately.
The first 10 minutes passed uneventfully, in dead silence. None of them had given the driver any address and he was randomly taking them to Plaça Catalunya. Once he got there, he’d ask them for directions.
She had been watching him with the corner of her eye, while he looked straight in front.
“Are you cross-eyed because of that gigantic nose?” she enquired.
He took the burn by clenching his fists on the front seat’s headrest, and by changing his head position.
Of course, his nose was still visible and she let out a giggle. He could not take that second insult in the space of a few seconds and snarled at her.
“Why are you such a stuck up bitch?”
She stared at him for a while. She could almost feel the electricity in his well-built body. Despite the nose, or maybe because of it, he was quite attractive. He emanated a fierce, primitive sexuality, especially when he was angry. The fit body and the height added to the beast impression.
She shook her thoughts away, disgusted to find herself imagining scenes with such a Lombrosian man. She was used with polite men and had never been exposed to the underbelly of the society, a place the man she had to share the cab with had certainly crawled from.
He held her gaze, scanning her, noticing that the curls flowed around perfectly chiseled cheekbones; her face was bony, with pleasantly sharp features. Her deep eyes reminded him of the dark waters of the Baltic Sea when he was a young boy fascinated with the seas. She had a certain grace that was usually annulled by her obnoxiousness. She’d be nice like a doll if she’d shut up.
He tore his gaze from her, the woman was certainly not his type. She oozed that disgusting brand of arrogance he always hated on others - the arrogance by birth. So she was a countess…big fucking deal, she was no better than a street whore with her mouthy style.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked the driver.
He was going to ask the same thing, and he couldn’t help himself from being annoyed that she had done it before him.
The driver did not respond. They were certainly no longer going towards Plaça Catalunya. The area seemed like an ill famed one, with dirty streets and decaying buildings.
“Where are we going?” he repeated her question.
Still there was no answer, as the car drove into a dead end and stopped.
“Where are we?” they both asked at the same time.
Fear crawled up her spine and she held her purse close to her body. He began to worry. The driver was whispering something.
“Speak up! Where are we, what is the meaning of this?” she yelled, panicking.
He tried to get out, but the door on his side was locked. They finally looked at each other; finally realizing something very wrong was about to happen.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” the driver’s litany turned louder and louder.
“What is going on!!” Zlatan grabbed the man's shoulders and shook him, furiously.
That’s when the driver pulled out of his grasp and burst out the door, still shouting his apologies.
No longer blocked by the man's body, they saw it, a bomb, strapped to the steering wheel. Only 30 seconds till detonation. They needed to get out of there.
“Quickly!!”
They both reached to cross into the front seat at the same time. They looked at each other with hatred in their eyes, this time it was not a matter of education or arrogance prompting each of them to want to get out as fast as possible, it was the survival instinct.
He looked at the bomb’s display, 5 seconds wasted….
“Go!” he said.
She crawled into the drivers seat and then out of the car, walking away from it without looking back. He followed, but it wasn’t as easy. His big body was not facile to maneuver in the small space. He was almost stuck.
He didn’t want to die. He looked at the display: only 15 seconds remained.
“Margravine!!!!!” he yelled after the departing woman.
She stopped. Took one step forward, stopped again and eventually turned around. He could not read her expression, but he knew he was at her mercy. He hated her for having to think about it, but he needed her help.
“Please, help me!” he yelled again, desperately, as the seconds flew by, he didn't care how he came across, he would've begged if that's what it took.
She walked towards him, her face blank of any emotion and begun helping him untangle from the seatbelt. Her smaller hands managed to loosen him and he was free with 2 seconds left.
They ran, but the explosion caught them near enough to throw them to the ground. Debris flew all over them, and they remained on the asphalt for a while, trying to recover from the shock of the blow.
Finally, he got up and helped her as well. They stood in front of each other, looking at the burning car. She had scraped both her knees in the fall and blood was already forming a crust on the left one, while it flowed down her right leg. Her hair was singed, and tears formed in her eyes while running her fingers through it.
He realized his was as well, but he wasn’t going to cry about it. He was more worried that there had been an attempted assassination. Someone wanted him dead. Or…wasn’t she a countess? Maybe the beef was with her, and he would’ve been collateral damage. He felt infuriated.
“This is ALL your fault!” she yelled, shocking him out of his reverie.
“What? No way, why would anyone want to kill me?” he voiced the questions inside his head.
“Didn’t you say you’re famous?! The driver knew your name!” she countered, pointing a bony finger with a formerly long now broken fuchsia nail in his face.
“Don’t point that at me!” he yelled back, grabbing her arm and moving it to the side rather harshly. “I’m famous, yes, but I’m a footballer!!”
“You’re HURTING me!” she shouted and jerked her hand out of his grasp.
He let go immediately, realizing he was dealing with a frail woman, not with a 150 kg K1 fighter.
“Maybe YOU were the target!” he said quietly, but harshly.
She gawked at him, giving up on inspecting the state of her once so great dress.
“Aren’t you a countess? With some fancy name?” he stared at her.
“Yes. But…I have no political ties…” she barely whispered, shocked by his allegations.
“So, there is no-one that would want to kill you?” he pressed on, feeling he may have hit a nerve.
The woman suddenly looked stripped of her arrogant confidence. Was she hiding anything? He had to know.
“No.” she said plainly.
He didn’t believe her, there was something unsettling about the way she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Of course, he failed to notice that her attention was on her bruised knees.
“I’m sure everyone just LOVES your sparkling personality!” he bit.
“Shut up. You don’t know anything about me!” her hand moved in a slapping motion carried only halfway through.
He remained silent, she was right; he had no right to judge her.
“What about you, Mr. Smartypants Famous Footballer? Are you sure no-one is after your sweet ass?” she verbally slapped him.
“Well, unless it’s a Real…”
But they were interrupted by gunfire. Instinctively, he grabbed her hand and ran out of the dead end street. Shots were coming from everywhere she thought: whoever wanted to kill them was certainly not slacking off.
But why would anyone want to kill them? This was what both of them pondered while they ran and ran on various streets, until they seemed to have lost their deadly tail.
“Stop, Stop, STOP!!” she yelled, using all her force to stop the bulky athlete from his sprint.
“What?!” he finally came to a halt.
Little Miss Congeniality was catching her breath, and loudly so. He could tell she was not used to intense physical effort. And the high heel sandals weren’t helping either.
“I’m not a frigging professional athlete!” she finally said when her breath returned to normal.
“I thought even normal people gave their best in a life or death scenario…” he mocked.
“Damn you, don’t make fun of me when you’re nearly getting me killed!!” she hissed.
“Me? Listen, Margravine, for all I know, it is you that’s most likely to be the cause of all this. And frankly, I don’t like the idea of getting killed because of someone like you either!”
He towered her physically and now morally as well. She didn't cower though, but held his gaze just as accusingly as before.
“Stop saying my name like that! ZLATAN!” she countered, readjusting the strap of her shoulder bag.
“Oh dear. We’re running the risk of dying and you’re pissed off over how I say your name?”
“Listen, Ibrahimovic…”
But she had to stop and scream, as suddenly there was a gun pointed at her head. They had been so caught up in their silly bickering that they had not heard the men approach. It was 3 of them, dressed in black, with ninja hoods, holding guns.
“What do you want with us?” he asked, fear insinuating in his voice as much as he tried to keep his calm.
Instead of an answer, one of the men tilted his head to the right and the guy closest to Zlatan, knocked him out by hitting him with the gun.
Margravine shouted in shock and fear, but she received the same blow to the head. The unconscious bodies were loaded into a black van that had appeared practically out of nowhere. Together with their cargo, the men took off to their destination.