CHAPTER 13 #2
I smile, coldly. "There's no need to brainwash someone who came willingly.
And if I were you, I'd be very careful about how you speak to me right now.
You're already breathing on borrowed time.
" Iris looks between us, frowning, trying to piece together the puzzle without all the pieces.
"What the hell is going on here? I know he's powerful.
I know he's connected to the Bratva. But I don't know his exact position. "
Jackson laughs, but there's nothing funny about the sound. It's hollow. Desperate. The laugh of a man watching someone walk blindly into a fire he can't stop.
"You really don't know?" He shakes his head, looking at her like she's the most naive woman alive. "This isn't some enforcer, Iris. Not some mid-level hitman you can handle with your fancy lawyer tricks." He points straight at me, his finger steady even as fear bleeds through his voice.
"This is the Pakhan." Iris blinks. "The... the what?" Jackson leans in closer to her, his voice Shakey and filled with terror. "The fucking king. The top of the Bratva food chain. The man who answers to no one. That's who you've been living with. That's who you've been fucking."
I lean back slowly, watching her reaction with careful interest, watching him even closer.
My fingers still itch for the trigger. Let him twitch wrong.
Let him give me one single reason. I'm done playing nice.
Iris sits beside me, her body rigid with tension, eyes darting between us trying to solve an equation that keeps changing.
Then she looks straight at me, her gaze piercing through all the walls I've built.
"Is that true?" she asks, her voice lower now, stripped of its earlier defensiveness. I don't look away. "I thought you would've guessed by now, kotyonok. With everything you've seen these past few days."
She blinks slowly, letting the information settle into her bones like the weight of a verdict.
"It's... a bit of a shock," she admits. Then she turns back to Jackson, and I feel something dangerous coil tight in my chest when she adds, "But I still don't think taking his case would cause any problems."
"She's so fucking dense," Jackson mutters under his breath, and then he does the one thing he absolutely should not do.
He grabs her hand. "Iris." I call calmly. "Get away from him." She doesn't move. "Move behind me," I say again, louder this time, the command unmistakable. "Now."
She shakes her head, stubborn to the very end. "You're not going to shoot him. You wouldn't." I tilt my head, dark amusement flickering across my face. "You think I'm bluffing?" She opens her mouth to respond. I pull the trigger.
The shot rings out, echoing off the walls of the cafe like a thunderclap. Jackson screams, clutching his shoulder as blood pours between his fingers, his body staggering backward from the impact. His eyes go wide with shock and pain, disbelief written across every line of his face.
Iris gasps beside me, frozen in place, her face draining of color.
I stand slowly, the gun still warm in my hand, and look around the cafe. Every single person is staring at us. Some have their phones out, probably recording. Others are already halfway to the door, desperate to escape. I raise my voice, letting it carry to every corner of the room.
"Anyone who saw anything here today—anyone who speaks to the police, anyone who even thinks about posting this online—will join him.
" I gesture to Jackson, bleeding on the floor like the wounded animal he is.
"Or worse. You have five seconds to delete whatever you recorded.
Starting now." The cafe erupts into frantic movement as phones are dropped, or smashed against tables.
People scramble for the exits, tripping over each other in their desperation to get away.
Within seconds, the place is nearly empty.
I turn back to Iris staring at me, tears streaming down her face, and the sight of them does makes me halt, I never wanted to make her cry, I begin to panic.
"Are you happy now?" she chokes out, her voice breaking. "Are you happy? You shot him. You threatened everyone. You threatened me. Is this what you find funny? Is this fun for you?"
I step toward her, reaching out. She shoves me back, hard, both hands flat against my chest. "Don't touch me." Then she grabs her bag and runs out of the cafe without looking back.
I stand there, watching her go, blood pooling on the floor beside me, Jackson groaning in agony behind me. "Ah, fuck," I mutter, rubbing my forehead.
She left her luggage in the trunk. From the way she ran, she probably went straight to her apartment. I want to chase after her. And I will. But not before I finish what I started.
I crouch down next to Jackson, who's pale and shaking, his blood soaking into his expensive shirt.
He looks up at me with fear in his eyes.
"Now, since all this has happened," I say quietly, keeping my voice conversational, almost pleasant, "it's not my fault you decided to be stupid.
I would've killed you. That first shot?" I gesture to his shoulder, pressing the gun to the bleeding wound.
"That was just because you touched her with that hand.
Unfortunately for you, you might not be able to use that arm properly ever again.
A shame. A pity, really. But at least you still have the other one.
" I lean in closer, close enough that he can see every promise of violence in my eyes.
"But just because my beautiful wife, will hate me if I kill you, I'm going to let you live.
On one condition." I let the words hang in the air between us, heavy with threat.
"You never contact her again. You never see her again.
You never breathe the same air as her again.
Hell, I shouldn't even see you anywhere near Moscow again. Do I make myself clear?"
I press the barrel of my gun to his forehead, right between his eyes.
Jacksons body shakes, weak from blood loss and terror.
At this point, he'd agree to anything. "Yes, sir," he mutters, the words barely more than a whisper.
"Good. Good. Good." I smile with no warmth.
"That's really good. I like it when dogs are obedient.
Now be a good little dog and run along. And don't forget what I said—I spared your life today.
Tomorrow, I might just kill you. Depends on my mood. "
I stand, holster my gun, and walk out of the cafe without looking back. She probably thinks the worst of me now. Probably sees me as nothing but a monster, a beast in expensive clothing who shoots men in restaurants and threatens innocent people without blinking.
I mean, she's not wrong. I am a beast.
But I don't want her thinking that. I want her to see me in a different light. I want her to see the man underneath the violence, the one who would burn the entire world to ashes just to keep her safe.
But how the hell do I paint myself as a saint when I just shot a man in front of her? When I made her cry? When I proved every terrible thing she probably suspected about me?
I rub my jaw, exhaling sharply heading for the car.