Killian #2
Gone. Just like that.
“She went back to them,” I mutter aloud. Though I’m speaking only to myself.
“Looks that way,” Lochlan says.
I stare at the frozen image on the screen, heart pounding in my ears. Part of me wanted to believe she’d somehow gotten out from under the Bratva. That she’d found somewhere safe to hide, despite no longer having my protection.
But the knowledge that she didn’t have the chance fucks with my head.
The Bratva showed up right as she left, proving they’ve been watching her closely all along.
…did she ever have a choice?
As much as I’ve told myself she did, what were her options? Fight The Deathless and be killed on the spot?
Could she have rebelled against Fedorov even if she wanted to?
The girl’s been in his custody from the time she was fourteen. He molded her, groomed her to be what he wanted for years. She told me how he used her and how she had a debt she’d never truly pay off.
I think about Ma and how she can’t ever seem to disentangle herself from my father, no matter how many times he’s beat the shit out of her. Her identity’s so tied up in him, she lives for him at this point.
The situations’s different, but some of the effects are the same—Jhene’s trapped by the Bratva in more ways than just physical captivity.
Fedorov’s done a fucking number on her. Emotionally. Psychologically.
“Fuck,” I grunt, eyes closing. Then I slam a fist on the table. “Fuck!”
“Figured it wasn’t good news,” Robby says awkwardly. He pockets his phone. “I mean… not sure what’s going on, but it didn’t look too good anyway.”
Lochlan clears his throat and changes the subject. “How’s Sorcha doing?”
“She’s, uh, she’s good. Matter of fact, we’re actually having dinner tonight. So I, uh, you know… should probably go.”
“Good—and remember what I told you. Treat her right or else.”
The twitchy cop fervently nods and then excuses himself from our presence.
We’re back where we started, alone at the booth with our burned coffee and laminated menus we’ve got no intention of ordering from.
I scrub a hand over my face. “I don’t know what the fuck to do. She’s back with them… and I’m the one who sent her there.”
Lochlan sips from his coffee, taking a second or two longer to answer, mulling over every word before speaking them.
“I know about huge fuck ups,” he says. “And about questioning loyalties. Trust me on that.”
Extremely true.
He almost destroyed his own flesh and blood over it.
“Sometimes when you’re on a mission, you get tunnel vision,” he explains.
“You’re so focused on the goal that you lose sight of everything else.
It sounds like that’s what happened to the stray.
She was so desperate to save her sister—the same way I was desperate to avenge Eddie—that she lost sight of the whole picture.
“She did whatever she felt she had to, even if it meant hurting people she cared about. You said the girl’s been through some shit,” he adds, meeting my gaze.
I nod in answer. “Then maybe it isn’t what it seems. The girl was probably trying to survive the only way she knew how. Maybe second chances are in order.”
“When you put it like that…” I admit with a frustrated glower.
“Think about it.”
Lochlan slides out of the booth and drops a few bills on the table to cover the coffee neither of us really drank.
I stay put for a long time after he’s gone, alone with my thoughts and the conflicted feelings I don’t know what to make of.
Second chances might be in order, but it’s not so easy when the Bratva’s involved. When the woman involved is once again in their clutches…
The next couple days are a fucked-up blur of more training, searching, and sleepless nights.
I throw myself into finding Fedorov’s property on Long Island, the one Aleksei mentioned when we met at that dive bar weeks ago. Apparently it’s his main estate and also where the old bastard keeps his “pets” locked away from the world.
If Jhene’s anywhere, that’s probably where she’d be.
But tracking down the exact location is easier said than done.
Fedorov’s paranoid for a reason. The man doesn’t exactly make his address available for public record.
I try Aleksei’s number at least half a dozen times. The phone rings before going to voicemail, and the Russian never calls back.
For all I know, he’s dead in a ditch somewhere, or he’s decided helping the Callahans isn’t worth the risk anymore.
Either way, I’m on my own.
Ronan’s made it clear the clan’s resources are going toward fighting the Bratva, not finding Jhene. I don’t bother asking for his help anyway.
This is on me and me alone.
In between the searching, there’s training.
Malone doesn’t let up, even though he can tell something’s wrong. If anything, he continues pushing harder, probably hoping the physical exhaustion will snap me out of whatever funk I’m in.
He’s got me sparring with anybody who’ll step in the ring, running drills ’til my lungs burn, and hitting the punching bag ’til it’s breaking off the chain.
It doesn’t work. Nothing works.
“You’re distracted, Kill,” Malone grunts two days before the big fight. “Your footwork’s sloppy and your timing’s off. Don’t get me started on how you’re telegraphing every punch like you’re sending a fucking postcard.”
I wipe the sweat from my face and glare at him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re a mess.” He crosses his arms, his grizzled face set in a disapproving grimace. “Besides, you’ll need to be a hell of a lot more than fine to beat Sharapova. The fight’s in two days, and you’re nowhere close to being where you need to be.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I growl moodily.
“You should give a fuck. This is the championship. Everything you’ve worked for. You go in there like this, Sharapova’s gonna eat you alive.”
I know he’s right.
But I still can’t bring myself to give a damn. All I can think about is Jhene.
Where is she? Is she safe? Is Fedorov punishing her for failing to deliver what he wanted? Is she locked in one of those cages she told me about?
Most troubling of all, how the fuck do I find her?
The night of the fight arrives regardless of how ready for it I am.
My gym bag’s packed and sitting by the door, stuffed with everything I need for Madison Square Garden.
Tape, gloves, mouthguard, the robe Dez had custom-made with my name stitched across the back in silver thread.
It’s all there, waiting for me to pick it up and walk out the door and go do the thing I’ve spent my entire career building toward.
…yet I can’t make myself move.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with my face in my hands and my mind a thousand miles away from the fight.
It’s becoming harder to function. To carry on when Jhene’s out there, and I don’t know if she’s alright.
Anything could be happening to her. She could be hurt or injured.
…she could already be dead.
It would be my fucking fault. I was so caught up in my outrage I refused to hear her out. I didn’t give her a chance to explain as she begged me to understand.
Instead, I turned her away like the asshole I am.
My phone buzzes and I glance down to see a text from Dez.
Already at the stadium
You on your way yet?
Car should already be there
Time to go.
The driver’s downstairs, ready to take me to MSG, where twenty thousand people are excited to watch me fight for the heavyweight championship of the world.
This is what I’ve wanted since I was seventeen and scrubbing floors at Malone’s Gym. The moment I’ve been chasing my entire career.
But none of it matters. Not without her.
Lochlan’s words keep rattling around in my skull, refusing to let me rest.
She was so desperate to save her sister that she lost sight of the whole picture.
The girl was probably trying to survive the only way she knew how.
Maybe second chances are in order.
Jhene wasn’t trying to destroy us. She was trying to save Eva. The only family she has left, the little sister she’s been protecting since they were kids.
Fedorov had her backed into a corner with no way out, and she did what she had to do to survive.
The same way I did what I had to do when I beat my father into a vegetable to protect Ma and Maeve.
We’re not so different in that regard.
Both of us have gone to extreme lengths to keep the ones we love safe.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Dez comes through, more frantic this time.
Kill tell me you’re otw!
The driver says you’re not coming out?
Fight starts in two hours!!
I start typing up a message telling him to shut the fuck up and know his place or I’ll show it to him, but a call comes through and interrupts me.
This time it’s not from Dez. It’s from the same number I’ve been calling for days without any answer.
Aleksei’s finally getting back to me.
I answer before the first ring’s even over. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for—”
“I have heard what you are looking for,” Aleksei interrupts in his low Russian accent. “Fedorov’s private residence. The place he keeps his pets.”
“You know where it is? The exact address?”
Aleksei allows for a second to pass, the silence heavy with implication.
“Possibly,” he answers. “I can take you there. Tonight.”
I make up my mind on the spot, regardless of how insane it would seem to everybody else. The thousands—even millions—across the world waiting on this heavily promoted championship match. This is one of the major sporting events of the whole damn year.
“Tell me where to meet you,” I say, already halfway to the door.