36. Killian
36
KILLIAN
M y anxiety over Natasha’s mental state quickly takes a back seat.
Because the wall of men below us just turned into the hard place, as four more men enter the stairwell from above us, and their sharp steps clatter against the cement as they rush toward us—serving as the rock that will crush us.
Normally, I would consider Natasha more of an asset in this situation than a liability. But with her broken sobs ripping my heart to shreds, I don’t know that she has the wherewithal to face the danger she’s in.
And it would appear that her sister, Tatiana, isn’t nearly the same lethal asset as Natasha. Because she stands with wide-eyed fear beside Lance, frozen in place as if she doesn’t know the first thing about self-defense.
Vaguely, I recall Natasha mentioning that her sister is more of a strategist than a fighter. They serve very different purposes in their family business. Which means that it’s just me and Lance against nine armed and deadly Italian mafia men.
“Hand the girls over, and we’ll let you go,” one man says to me—one of the men who came down the stairs after us. He’s watching me with dark eyes, assessing just what move I might try to make now that we’re trapped between a rock and a hard place.
No doubt Lucian sent him after us with orders to retrieve the Sokolov sisters.
And my meeting with the Italian don rings in my ears like a prophetic death knell.
I shouldn’t have called Lucian crazy. Because, clearly, he is—he’s crazy enough to have killed Boris Sokolov in cold blood—in the middle of a charity event, no less. And if our meeting is any indication of what motivated such a rash decision, he likely did it with the intent of taking Tatiana as his wife. And claiming the entire Sokolov empire for himself.
He all but said as much in our meeting. If only I’d taken him seriously enough to listen.
I wonder if I could have stopped this from ever coming to fruition.
I was such a fool. Because I didn’t take him seriously like I should have.
And now the woman I love is falling apart in my arms because her parents were just murdered before her eyes. I won’t let them have her—or her sister. Natasha’s lost more than any woman her age should ever have to. I won’t just hand her over to the man responsible in the hopes that it will save my own skin.
Only a complete fool would think he could strike a deal with a man who committed the atrocity Don Lucian just did.
“You’ll take them over my dead body,” I growl, guiding Natasha behind me to use my body as her shield. And I reach inside my suit coat for my gun—the gun I normally carry in my chest holster. But I handed it over in order to gain admission into the charity ball tonight.
Wait a minute. How in the hell did Lance get a gun past Boris’s security? I muse suddenly.
I suppose I should just be grateful because it’s making us slightly less outmatched. But I still don’t like our odds. Because I have nothing but my bare hands to protect Natasha with.
And while that’s not the most promising weapon, I’ll use whatever means necessary to keep her safe. So I raise my fists and settle into a defensive crouch.
“Killian, no,” Natasha hiccups, her petite hand grasping my shoulder with her considerable strength as she tries to discourage me from fighting.
It relieves me to feel her so strong despite the horrible trauma she just endured. And though her voice still quivers precariously, she’s not sobbing like before. The gravity of our situation seems to have brought her back from the precipice, if only temporarily. She’s pulled herself together to face the battle before us.
Only she better not think that I’m going to hand her over without a fight.
“They’re not taking you,” I growl, and from somewhere behind me, I hear Lance’s gun cock in confirmation.
“You’re a fool, King, if you think you can stop it from happening,” the same Italian sneers, and he draws a knife—as do the three men beside him. “They’re not worth dying for.”
“You’re. Not. Taking them,” I snarl, steel filtering into my voice.
Several more guns cock, warning me that Lance is outnumbered and outgunned.
“You must be stupid if you think you can shoot those guns at my man in this stairwell without hitting the Sokolov girls,” I state with deadly calm, flashing a spiteful look toward the gun-wielding men. “You really think your boss will appreciate it if you kill them?”
They hesitate, sharing a glance before slowly lowering their guns as one.
“Killian, look out!” Natasha screams, alerting me to the danger.
But before I can turn back to face my four knife-wielding opponents, they’re on me—they struck while my focus was elsewhere. Bastards.
And I just have time to get my hand up in order to block the first attacker as he plunges his knife toward the soft spot at the curve of my neck. A second attack comes so swiftly, slashing at my throat, that it’s all I can do to duck. I feel the air ripple past my face as the blade comes within inches of my ear.
Then a third blow connects with my gut.
Fortunately, that one was a boot, not a knife. But it still knocks the wind out of me, and I wheeze as my body doubles over without my permission.
Behind me, Lance cusses, and four shots ring out in quick succession, making my head spin and my ears throb as the ruckus turns muffled from the percussive gunfire bouncing off the cement walls. I shake my head to try and rid myself of the tinny buzz.
And from the corner of my eye, I catch two blades flash from Natasha’s palms, blurring as they fly through the air—and bury themselves to the hilt in two separate Italian men’s eyes.
The men hit the ground, halving my number of opponents in an instant. And it’s not lost on me that Natasha just saved my life. Even in a moment of severe trauma, she’s the most badass woman I’ve ever met.
Behind me, I watch Lance tumbling down the stairs with his remaining opponent, vanishing from view. And Tatiana stands frozen, her back against the wall as her eyes widen in shock.
Then the two knife-wielding Italians still standing attack me as one. Blow for blow, I block and parry, avoiding their blades without having the capacity to land a hit myself. What I wouldn’t give for a weapon. But my gun’s stashed in the safe at the front entrance.
Vaguely, I note Natasha’s swift, silent movement as she stoops over one of the men she killed. And I redouble my efforts to bring this fight to a close. Catching one of my opponents off guard, I slam my fist up into his jaw hard enough to hear it crack.
His head snaps violently back. As he topples, his temple hits the cement stair hard enough that he’s not getting back up.
And in that fraction of a second between incapacitating him and gauging my second opponent’s next move, I feel the sharp bite of a blade as it slides between my ribs.
I wasn’t fast enough.
Searing pain explodes across my side. I grunt, jerking away from the source out of sheer instinct. And the knife wrenches free—opening a gaping wound in my side.
Hot liquid gushes from the space beneath my armpit, alerting me to the fact that I’m losing blood at a rapid pace. A moment later, I feel a crushing weight pressing down on my chest. The bastard must have collapsed my lung.
I grit my teeth, preparing to retaliate, and as I close my fingers around his throat, Natasha steps up behind him, murder in her eyes.
Using a bloody blade she must have retrieved from one of her other victims, she drives it up into the base of my aggressor’s skull. The man goes limp immediately, the life dimming from his eyes like a candle being snuffed out.
And I let him drop.
He hits the ground hard, something giving a sickening crunch as his legs buckle in an awkward direction.
And the silent stillness that follows fills me with intense relief.
“Lance?” I wheeze, checking to make sure my foster brother is still alive.
“Present,” he singsongs in his deep bass, joking darkly—a rare treat—as if I’m the teacher doing roll call. Then his heavy boots scuff back up the cement stairs from what sounds like the floor below.
I attempt a laugh, but the crushing weight in my chest makes it impossible to take a breath. Instead, I give a wet, agonizing cough. And a moment later, the ground comes rushing up to greet me.
“Killian!”
The panic in Natasha’s voice is so genuine, it makes my heart rate kick up a notch, and with monumental effort, I lift my head to find the danger. Her face swims above me, her beautiful silver eyes like full moons in a breathtaking porcelain sky. And cool hands press against my cheeks.
“Oh God, oh God!” she gasps, deep concern consuming her expression. Her soft hands find my side, generating a considerable amount of pain as she applies astonishing pressure to my injury. “Ti, get me something to use as a bandage!” Natasha screams over her shoulder.
Then Lance’s familiar scowl slides into view, the edges of his face going blurry as my head spins. A string of cusses worthy of a sailor issue from his lips, and that’s when I realize it’s bad—the pain that’s blazing across my ribs and tightening like a vise around my lungs. I must be losing a lot of blood to be this lightheaded this fast.
“Stay with me, Killian,” Natasha pleads, fresh tears pooling in her eyes and clinging to her lashes. “You’ll be alright.”
Another racking cough makes my shoulders curl defensively, and this time, I taste copper as wet blood coats my lips. “Well, damn,” I rasp, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and looking at my crimson smudge to confirm my suspicion.
Natasha’s crying now, thick tears rolling down her prominent cheekbones. I reach up with my other hand to avoid staining her with my blood, and I wipe them away with my thumb.
“Don’t cry, love,” I murmur. “You’re alright.”
“ You’re not alright,” she says, capturing my palm against her cheek as she holds it there with her hand. “You’re losing so much blood…”
My vision flickers, and my eyelids grow heavy, but before sleep can claim me, Natasha’s panicked voice revives me like a shot of adrenaline to the heart.
“Oh God, please, don’t leave me, Killian,” she begs. “I’ll do anything.”
A sob rips from her throat, making her shoulders shake, and it feels like someone’s cutting me open just seeing her so upset. I want to fix it—whatever’s got her so upset—but I’m having a hard time focusing on what the problem is, let alone the solution.
“Even marry me?” I tease, trying to bring levity to a situation. I’m struggling to wrap my head around what’s happening because it feels astonishingly light. Like I’m levitating a foot above my body rather than residing inside it.
“Yes,” she sobs a laugh. “Yes, for Christ’s sake, I’ll marry you if you promise to stay alive.”
That makes me chuckle, but the humor quickly devolves into another hacking cough.
Faintly, I hear Lance telling me to quit joking around before I drown myself. But Natasha’s beautiful face is all I want to focus on.
“Swear you’ll marry me,” I wheeze, running the pad of my thumb over her cheek.
Natasha sobs harder, her face twisting in the most devastating blend of laughter and agony. Then gentle fingers comb into my hair, brushing it back from my face and sending pleasurable tingles across my scalp. And despite my intense desire to keep my eyes open so I can look at my earth angel for longer, they slowly drift closed.
“I swear it,” she sniffles. “We’ll get married tomorrow if you want.”
“Then, I promise …”
Through the fog of my muddled thoughts, I vaguely hear someone calling my name. But it’s so distant, as if coming from the far side of a long tunnel. Then a thick, heavy exhaustion settles over me and sweeps me off to nothingness.