Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
FIONA
The bedroom is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every creak in the floorboard sound like a gunshot. Every gust of wind outside is like breath on the back of my neck.
I told Aleksei to call when he’s here, because having him on the phone was making me more anxious.
My parents sit on the edge of the bed, my mother gripping my father’s free hand so tightly her knuckles are white.
She whispers prayers in Italian under her breath, the same few lines on repeat like she’s trying to build a wall of protection around us.
My father’s leg bounces uncontrollably, the gun still clenched in his other hand.
I lower to the floor with my back against the nightstand, one hand clamped around the revolver. More of those men could come for us, and the thought makes every hair on my body stand up.
I can’t sit still. My mind won’t stop replaying everything that happened tonight. The gunshots, the blood, the way that man looked at me in the last seconds before he died. The thought alone forces me up, and I drift toward the window, careful not to let the curtain shift even an inch too far.
Outside, Viktor’s and Leonid’s SUVs are still parked at the curb, but there’s no sign of them. Nothing but the sickening crawl of dread tightening in my chest.
My mother cuts through the fog. “Fiona, come back. Don’t let them see you, just in case.”
I step away, pulse hammering like a war drum. “Aleksei will be here soon. We’re going to be okay.”
My father lets out a harsh breath, the blood caked around his forehead now. “I should have killed them both when I had the chance.”
Mom shakes her head. “And they would have killed Fiona if you had. We are alive. That’s what matters, Tony.”
She squeezes his hand until he exhales.
“You’re right. That’s what matters.”
Sudden footsteps downstairs have my heart dropping to my stomach. My father stands beside me while my mother gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Wait here,” I whisper, already moving before either of them can stop me.
The doorknob turns. My phone rings.
I lift the gun with both hands, finger tight on the trigger, and I don’t hesitate. I already know I will pull it if I have to. I will kill again if it means protecting the people I love.
“Fiona,” Aleksei’s voice booms from the other side.
Relief crashes into me so hard, my knees nearly give.
We shove the dresser aside, and the second I wrench the door open, he’s there—eyes wild, chest rising and falling hard, hair a chaotic mess like he’s been raking his hands through it nonstop.
He stares at me for a long moment, drinking in every inch of me, looking for wounds, for blood, for anything that might mean he arrived too late.
Then his hands are on my face, warm and frantic. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m okay.”
“Slava Bogu.” His forehead drops to mine and he kisses me slow and deep, his arms crushing me to him like he needs the proof that I’m real.
When he finally leans back, he doesn’t let me go. His face stays buried in my neck, breathing me in, as if he’s grounding himself in the scent of my skin.
“I was worried.”
The rawness in the words hits me in the chest, and I wrap my arms around him just as tightly, holding on like I’m afraid the world might rip us apart again.
Behind him, his brothers and several of their men file into the room, weapons drawn, eyes sweeping every corner.
Aleksei turns to Kirill. “Take her parents to the SUV and have the men stay with them.”
My parents both hug me before they head out.
When they’re out of earshot, I ask, “Did you find Viktor and Leonid?”
By some miracle, I hope they’re alive, but I’m not banking on it.
He nods. “They’re dead.”
I cover my mouth with my hand, tears swimming in my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“It is not your fault.” His hands grip mine, brows furrowing. “You did nothing wrong.”
I know it isn’t, but somehow, it feels as though it is.
“You did good, moya okhotnitsa.” He smirks. “Your shots were perfect.”
He lifts my hand and presses a slow kiss to my knuckles and doesn’t let go. Not when we walk out of the house. Not when we reach the car. Not even when the door shuts behind us. His fingers stay wrapped around mine the whole way home, and somehow, that tether is the only thing keeping me together.
ALEKSEI
My hand is still locked in hers when we walk inside, unwilling to let go. My men fan out through the entryway and hall, every one of them on alert.
Konstantin gives a few orders, sending half the crew to guard the perimeter and half to stay with Fiona and her parents. He knows I would burn the world down if I found one gap in our protection.
The air smells faintly of coffee and lemon polish. One of the maids appears, a tray in her hands filled with tea, coffee, and pastries. She sets it carefully on the table in the den and bows her head, her eyes flicking toward Fiona before she vanishes again.
Fiona stands by the window, arms wrapped around herself. She hasn’t said a word since the car, and I don’t know what the hell is going on in her head or how I can fix it. Her parents huddle close together on the sofa, her mother whispering something to her father.
I step toward her. “You should eat.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”
She killed a man tonight. The first one is always the hardest.
I still remember mine. I was ten, and it was on my father’s orders. The man begged on his knees, pleading for me not to do it, that he had a wife and kids waiting for him. But still, I pointed the gun at his chest and pulled the trigger.
For weeks, I had nightmares. I saw his face everywhere I went. I couldn’t escape it. But eventually, it went away, until killing became no different than eating or sleeping.
But Fiona is not me and she never will be. She will need time, and I will give her every second of it.
“You did what you had to do,” I tell her. “You should be proud.”
She lets out a brittle laugh, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I don’t feel proud. I just feel relieved it wasn’t us, but I can’t stop seeing it.”
“I understand.” I pull her into my chest, holding her there. “You’re strong. You’ll be okay.”
Her shoulders sag, like she doesn’t quite believe me.
I press a kiss to the top of her head before easing back. “I have to go for a bit.”
She looks up fast. “Where?”
But in her gaze, I can tell she already knows. I have unfinished business.
“The one who’s still alive. He won’t be for long.”
“Oh.” Her expression tightens, the reality settling heavy between us. “Right.”
“Anyone who touches what’s mine doesn’t get to live, detka. You know that.”
“I do.” She swallows. “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“I know.” My hand curves around the back of her neck and I lean in, giving her a soft kiss.
“I don’t want you to go,” she says quietly.
I draw her in again, her face pressed to my chest. “I don’t want to go either. But every minute that man breathes is a minute I can’t. Every second he’s alive, I see you standing there again—shaking, terrified, holding a gun. I need him gone.”
Her eyes soften as she peers up. “Aleksei…”
“I will not be gone long.” My thumb traces the curve of her lower lip. “You stay here. The men will not leave this house, do you understand? You are safe here.”
She nods slowly, her hand coming up to rest over my heart. For a moment, I almost stay. I almost give in to the pull she has over me. But that’s not who I am.
This is my fight. My vengeance. My blood to spill.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispers. “Just come back to me.”
Those words shouldn’t feel like a vow, but they do. They settle in my chest like an oath I’ll bleed to keep.
I kiss her again, longer this time. Deeper. The kind that bruises. The kind that tells her exactly how much of me she owns.
“I’ll come back,” I promise against her lips.
When I turn to leave, she grabs my forearm.
“Don’t be reckless. Don’t get yourself killed.”
I stare back at her. “I will not be the one dying. I swear.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out, and I leave before I can change my mind.
The moment I slide into the SUV, my men climb in behind me. I take the wheel, ignition roaring to life beneath my hand, and we tear down the long road toward Konstantin’s estate, where the surviving man is being held.
The house shrinks in the rearview mirror, but Fiona’s touch stays trapped against my skin.
As I press the gas, I make a promise to myself, to Fiona, to the ghosts that made me what I am: the man who touched what’s mine will beg for mercy. And I will remind him there’s no mercy left in me.
The pigs shift restlessly in their pen, snorting and stomping as the scent of blood thickens the air, heavy enough to make the whole place feel alive. The only sound I care about is the ragged, uneven breathing of the man tied to the chair in front of me.
His leg wound has been wrapped just enough to keep him conscious.
His face is so battered that he’s almost unrecognizable: one eye swollen shut, lip split, cheek already a deep purple.
He whimpers when I step into his line of sight dragging the electric bone saw across the grass, making whatever is left of his soul recoil.
Konstantin stands beside me, arms folded, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. “It is in your best interest to tell my brother everything. He is a little bit cranky today, and if he has to drag it out of you, you will wish these pigs would get to you sooner.”
He pats the man on the head like he’s a misbehaving child, then steps back. My other brothers say nothing, watching with a cold stillness.
“You have one chance,” I tell him. “You waste it, and we do this the very painful way.”
Except, of course, no matter what he tells me, I will torture him to death.
“I told you.” He gasps. “We were hired.”
“By…”
He hesitates, and I tsk disapprovingly. I crouch beside him, my fingers brushing the grass, then reach for the aluminum bat I left resting against the feed bin, leaving the saw beside him.
“Still don’t know who gave the order?” I drag the bat up his leg, and he pisses himself.
I should beat him dead just for that.
He opens his mouth, but before the words can form, I swing. The bat connects against the side of his thigh, a sickening crunch splitting the air. With his scream, birds scatter from the trees.
I bring the bat down again, this time against his shoulder. Then his other leg. Then his ribs. He howls, a wet gurgle in the back of his throat.
“Tell me who sent you.” The bat connects to his kneecap, shattering in its wake.
“I don’t—don’t know their names.” He shrinks into himself. “They didn’t give us names. Just—just told us to bring the girl. Someone wants her.”
I go still. “Who?”
“I don’t know!”
I swing again. “Think harder.”
“Fuuuck!” His exhales grow shallow, teeth rattling.
“I don’t know his name. No one does. We got paid by a middleman.”
“Tell me who.”
He shoots off a name and a number. American. I’m sure it was the Volkovs who paid him.
The bat falls from my hand, and I grab the saw again. It hums to life as I put it on. Loud. Piercing. A mechanical shriek that has dread growing in his irises.
“Wait, no!” His body quivers. “Please…please, man, don’t!”
“You came for my wife.” I crouch down. “You pointed a gun at her. You made her kill. You made her cry. And that is unforgivable.”
“I-I-I’m sorry. I’ll help you, okay? Anything you want. I’ll be your man.”
“I do not need your help. I have my family for that.”
His scream rips from his lungs as the blade makes contact with this shoulder, his arm severing as blood sprays across my face. And it fuels the flames already consuming me.
But I do not stop. I saw through flesh and tendon, through bone and muscle, until the arm drops to the floor with a sickening, wet thud.
The pigs shriek behind me, scenting the fresh meat.
Konstantin nods toward the pen. “Toss it in. They’ve been starving.”
I pick up the severed limb and throw it over the gate. The pigs fight over it instantly, squealing in delight.
“Do not worry, I will have more soon.”
The man yells again as I take his other arm. He’s thrashing, half delirious now, his legs kicking weakly.
Anton steps forward, pulling his face up by his hair. “Let’s make him watch.”
He turns him toward the pigs. They are louder now. Wet, savage chewing. One of them grunts as it fights another for the bone.
When I take his leg, he barely has any strength to scream. I let the saw fall this time.
“You hear that?” I whisper in his ear as I watch the pigs. “That’s your death calling.”
“Please,” he whimpers. “Kill me.”
“No. They will.”
“Noooo…please…”
I keep him conscious as long as possible, letting him feel it. Feel the blood leaving his body, the terror rise as his strength fades.
And when he’s just barely holding on, I lean in one last time.
“Tell the devil who sent you.”
Then I slit his throat and lift him over my shoulder before throwing him into the pen.
The pigs do not wait. They’re just as starved as I am.
For blood. For revenge.
And I won’t rest until I find every single man who thought they could touch her and live to tell about it.