Chapter 8
Edmund
There’s nothing more pathetic than a sack of shit blubbering while he’s dangling from a crime lord’s garage ceiling.
“Please, please, man. Please don’t kill me.” Caleb’s voice is an earnest whine.
Sergey Aseyev shakes his head and mutters something in Russian. “He’s disgusting.”
“Agreed.” I look away from the guy who used to be my second-closest friend. “What are you going to do with him? We brought him to you. He’s yours.”
Sergey brushes a piece of lint from the hem of his polo shirt. “No. I will leave it up to you. Happy to make him disappear if that’s what you want.”
I realize that as angry as I am, that’s all I want—I want Caleb Morraine to disappear. But I don’t want him to disappear in Sergey’s sense of the word; I don’t want to kill him. I simply don’t want him in my life anymore.
“You’d do whatever with him that I recommend?” I ask.
Sergey’s smile is humorless. “Well, I’m certainly not going to hire him. But if you want me to set him free, I’ll set him free.”
Caleb continues crying.
“Shut up.” Troy nudges him with the crowbar he took back from Sergey.
I hold out my hand for the crowbar. Troy passes it over.
I lightly press the end of the crowbar to Caleb’s forehead, then his chest, then his stomach. I pull it back like I’m going to swing, but I don’t swing. He whimpers.
“If you’re free, you leave San Esteban. Forever.
” I stare hard, making sure he can see how deadly serious I am.
“The Laytons want nothing to do with you ever again. You never come back. Not even to see your mother. If you know what’s good for her, you’ll convince her to go with you because I doubt my father will want her hanging around after he hears what you did. ”
“It was a mistake,” Caleb sobs.
“Yes, it fucking was.” I want to laugh, but I don’t have any more time to waste. Danica is waiting for us. “Sure, Sergey, let him go.”
“Let him down.” Sergey nods to one of his guys.
The beefy man unhooks Caleb’s cuffs. Caleb drops to the floor in a heap. He holds his face in his hands, crying. “Thank you, thank you, Edmund.”
Nothing to see here. Just a useless maggot of a traitor.
“You two.” Sergey nods at Troy and me. “You’ll rescue my granddaughter. Do you need some men?”
“We’ll take any you want to spare.” I glance at the big guys already here.
“Dominic, Stov, Peter, and Kovich, you will go with Mr. Layton.”
“Thank you, Sergey.” I shake his hand, and Troy does, too.
We turn to leave the garage when two things happen: I realize I’m still holding Sergey’s crowbar, and someone shouts in alarm.
I whip around to see Caleb on his feet and holding a lug wrench. He pulls back his arm to swing the wrench at Sergey’s head.
I don’t stop to think. I swing.
The crowbar connects with Caleb’s temple. He topples to the concrete floor again.
This time, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry. His brown eyes stare sightlessly up.
I killed him. I fucking killed him. Blood answers with blood. Always has, always will.
But he was my friend, at one point. For over a decade, I trusted him. I laughed with him, shared drinks with him. I confided in him and let him confide in me.
I drop the crowbar and kneel down. I shove at his side. His limp body rocks back and forth. “Why the fuck did you do that? Why did you make me do this?”
Troy grabs my shoulder. “We gotta go.”
“I’ll take care of the body.” Sergey’s face is pale but resolute.
I don’t move. I’ve never killed anyone before. Sure, I’ve been around death. I know my father has had men killed.
But now I’ve killed someone—and he used to be my friend.
“Edmund.” Troy shakes my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Sergey leans down to stare into my eyes. “You saved my life, Edmund. Now go save my granddaughter.”
I stand, my eyes stinging. He’s right. Danica’s waiting for us.
When we reach the driveway, a black vintage Mustang is parked behind Troy’s truck. Dmitri leans out the window. “Do you know where she is?”
I pause before getting into Troy’s truck. “We’re on our way to her now.”
“I’ll follow you.”
* * *
Danica
“Kellen. Kellen, please—please don’t be dead.”
Uriel has left me alone in this creepy-ass office with a dead man.
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I didn’t know Kellen, not really. And yet…he was my friend.
With his last act, he tried to save me.
Now I need to figure out how to save myself the rest of the way.
The utility knife is safe beneath my foot. I can lean forward just enough to see everything is hidden by my wedding gown. When Uriel comes back, he won’t be able to see it.
The thing is, I want my wrists untied. The utility knife could probably cut through the plastic rope, but I have no way of getting it back there to my hands. I’m no gymnast, and even if I was, it would be physically impossible to maneuver the knife back to my hands.
“Kellen?” I whisper. “Hey, you’re alive. I know you’re alive. You have to be, please.”
His chest isn’t moving, his skin is too pale for a living person. Uriel wouldn’t have put him in the chair untied if there was any chance he’s alive and could get free.
I just wish, so badly, that Uriel is mistaken.
Kellen doesn’t move. The blood around his mouth is dark and dry. His split lip is no longer pink—it’s almost gray. He’s gone. And if he isn’t gone, he at least isn’t waking up to help me with anything. The sooner I accept this, the faster I can move on with my escape.
The only way I’m getting to this utility knife is if my hands are already untied.
“Excuse me?” I call. “I have to pee.”
It worked for Kellen—at least as far as getting him out of the chair. He came back to it dead. Will Uriel kill me, too?
No, that Allen guy told Uriel to keep me alive. Uriel wasn’t happy about it, but he’ll listen to his brother. At least, I hope he will.
Where are Troy and Edmund? My family? They must know I’m gone, that I need help. I have to believe they’re trying, but what if they can’t figure out where the Vorsongs are keeping me?
“I really gotta pee.” I inject anxiety into my voice, which isn’t hard to do.
Another long moment goes by. Then, without a word, without a sound, the door swings open and Uriel stands there. He cocks his head this way and that, evaluating the scene before him.
“You should be dead to match the king. A dead queen and a dead king, for symmetry.” He sighs. “But it isn’t time yet.”
I shiver at his cold, flat tone. He sounds matter-of-fact about my death. Also, he’s disappointed even if he doesn’t know how to express it like a normal person. He truly does wish I was dead so I could match Kellen.
“I have to use the restroom,” I say.
“Very well.” He comes around me and tugs at the ropes at my wrists. His touch is clammy and cool. My skin stings from where I struggled against the bindings. He prods me forward out of the chair. “Upsy-daisy.”
I don’t have to fake being unsteady. After I’ve been sitting so long, my legs don’t want to work, and my arms tingle from the blood moving freely through them again.
It would be so easy to go along with what he wants, to quietly take the relief of a quick bathroom break and use the opportunity to stretch my muscles. Giving up is easier than fighting. But this is my only chance.
“I’m going to be sick.” I lean forward like I’m about to hurl.
“Not in here!” Uriel nudges me toward the door.
Still hunched over, I grab the utility knife. Keeping the knife in the folds of my wedding dress, I feel along the side for the button to extend the blade. I stumble toward the door and fake a gag.
Uriel puts a hand at my back to propel me forward. It helps me gauge where he is. Good.
My heart’s in my throat. I feel sick—maybe I really will throw up.
Malcolm tried to kill me twice, and he couldn’t. I won’t let Uriel have that honor, either.
“What are you doing?” Uriel shoves me again. “Get into the bathroom.”
“I forgot something.” I spin, knife held firmly in my hand.
I shove down my revulsion—the blade slashes against his neck, catching on his skin. Blood sprays over his neck, his shirt, my arm and dress.
Uriel’s face registers an actual emotion—surprise.
But he isn’t dead. I need to cut him again—I can’t leave this to chance.
I pull back the knife to prepare for another attack, but he throws out his hand, knocking my arm aside. I lose my grip on the knife. It clatters to the concrete floor and bounces somewhere under the desk.
Uriel moans, falling to his knees. He grips the side of his neck, covering the wound. Blood spills out from between his fingers. His blank, blue eyes are wide in horror as he gasps and gargles for help.
No time to find the knife and stab him again. There’s so much blood—he can’t survive this.
It takes me too long, but finally, I pull my gaze from his and run from the room.