Chapter 37
RORI
“You have gotten lazy.” The words are meant to hurt me, to cut, but my smile only lifts, and I can see the growing anger darken his face. He’s never been able to handle disrespect. If I was in striking range, he’d already be landing blows, and he’d fully expect me to take it.
“Can’t say that I missed you either.” I flick a glance at Timur who is taking me in slowly, a look in his eye that’s all too familiar. The one he used to give me when I was sixteen without Mishka around. “Timur. Still being a creep.”
Timur doesn’t bother to look embarrassed at being caught. Men like him never are. Instead of answering me, he looks at Simeon. “I’ll be having the first crack at her before you have your turn. I’ve earned it far more than you.”
Simeon’s face flushes with outrage. “That’s not fucking fair! I’ve done all this shit to get her here and now I don’t get to be the first one to fuck her? Not fucking—Uhhhhh.”
Blood bubbles up in his mouth before he collapses to the floor, choking as he dies.
Timur spins toward me, his face a mask of rage, but I’m already firing another bullet, and this one takes out his right shoulder, the one I know he needs to hold his gun.
He lets out a cry of pain, grabbing it, and cursing me in Russian.
My father never flinches, never moves to stop me or fire his own weapon that I know is concealed on the other side of that door.
The anger has dulled, and the calculation has started again in his eyes.
I hold his gaze as I lower the gun. I can’t kill him yet.
I need to find out where his own back-up is now.
They’re close. I know it deep in my gut.
“Kill her! Why aren’t you killing her, you son of a bitch?
” Timur screams at him, clutching his shoulder as he hunches over with the pain.
I missed anything vital, but I made sure my bullet would land with the most pain.
If he somehow survives this, he’ll never be able to use that shoulder again without some very good surgeons.
“Shut up,” Pasha orders mildly. “Or I’ll order her to put another bullet in you to save me the trouble.”
Timur sputters through the pain, like he can’t believe he’s been double-crossed by a man who has perfected the art.
“I don’t answer to you.”
“Don’t you?”
The slightest flicker of his eyes, so minute if I didn’t know what to look for, I would never have even seen it. I’m already moving, dodging the gun that’s about to be pressed into my back. I grunt when they counter, their elbow landing hard into my side, but I can’t let them take me down.
Down means dead.
My attacker is wearing a balaclava much like my own, and only the darkness of their eyes reflects back at me.
They’re taller than me, and they move expertly, dodging me and countering all my steps.
Until I manage to land a kick to their wrist, sending the gun flying.
A small grunt, but enough for me to know that they’re male.
Of course, my father wouldn’t want a woman to go against me. He wanted to have the upper hand in every way possible. It’s always been a weakness he’s never acknowledged, because the man thinks that word will never apply to him.
I move fast, sweeping my foot, taking them down. They land with a thud, and I don’t need to look over to see my father glowering. No, he’s assumed I’ve lost my edge, that his guy should be able to take me down without much effort. I won’t be sorry to disappoint him.
I disarm them when they try to grab another gun, then a knife.
Then they break the biggest rule of all.
They speak. “You fucking bitch,” he spits out in Russian.
The brogue of his voice is thick, and I’d put him from the northern part of Russia where some of the most ruthless of Bratva groups call home.
The kinds that traffic women and children because of how much money it earns them.
I don’t bother to waste the time to figure out who they are. They try to grab for my gun, and I put a bullet between their eyes. I pull away, not even winded, but I barely have time to get to my feet before two more bodies covered in all black come blasting out of the stairway.
What the fuck is this, a training mission?
Disgusted, I shoot them both before they can reach me, whirling as a couple more come out of the rooms closer to my father. A few of them land a couple of good shots, one disarming me, but my anger burns molten. Is this his plan? Test me? See just how lazy I might have become?
He’s about to be sorely disappointed.
Each of them is more and more desperate, shooting at me wildly instead of with the precision they were trained to have.
Skill has been replaced by panic and the drive to impress.
They want my father’s favor, but all they’ve done is show him just much he’s failed.
If I wasn’t fighting to stay alive, I might even laugh.
Timur curses and cries out when one of them tries to use him as a shield, but my father puts that one down without so much as a glance.
It’s the turning point that the others start to realize just what they’ve been brought to. Their slaughter. These aren’t his best. They’re the ones he wanted to get rid of without angering his allies. Dying on a mission, even at his own hands, would be better than him killing them at the school.
It’s a fucked up mess, but one that I don’t care to think on too much. I kill the final one, this one a young woman with a wild look in her eyes, and a terrible form. I should feel guilty, some remorse, but I know better than anyone just what kind of soul you have to survive that place.
There is no rehabilitating them. Not this group.
“Fuck!” Timur screams. “What the fuck, Pasha? You said that you would take her down.” His eyes are wild with pain and fury, blood dripping down his suit and to the floor.
Pasha looks at me, assessing. “Hmmm, yes, well, I’ve changed my mind. It seems my daughter has not lost all her skills like I thought. With some more training and refining, she’ll be one of my best.”
I’m breathing heavier from the exertion of taking on almost a dozen people, but I still manage a snort of derision. “That’s what you took from that? That you think I’m going to go back with you and just turn into another asset for you? Fuck you, Father.”
He doesn’t like that, but other than the promise of retribution covering his expression, he simply replies, “You’ll do what you’re told unless you’d rather die.
And I don’t have the wish to lose another asset.
” He glances around at the bodies littering the floor dispassionately.
“Perhaps in time you’ll be able to take my place.
Your brothers and sisters certainly haven’t shown the aptitude for such things as you have.
After some much-needed re-training for you, of course.
” The smile he gives me speaks of the horrors I’ll have to endure under that threat.
Instead of answering, I lift my gun and fire at him, but instead of shooting at his head or any other exposed part of him that he anticipates, I shoot at the door, and I hear him give a surprised cry of pain.
“You fucking cunt, I’ll kill you for that!” he roars from behind the door. The pain in his voice is mild, so I haven’t hit anything vital. Pity.
I’m already moving, ramming into the door with a hard thud and sending him crashing to the floor. The element of surprise, another one of my father’s lessons, and one of the ones that he clearly hasn’t taught his students.
Timur tries to rush me, but I spin, landing my foot on his gut and sending him flying back against the wall with a loud thump. His head hits hard enough to have him slumping, dazed. I really want to kill him, but he’s Ilya’s, though I don’t know why. It’s a problem to solve later.
I hear the movement, sensing it as I’m already moving, and Father rushes me. He’s still large, full of hard muscle, but I can see the blood running down his arm where I shot him in his bicep. He can still move his arms, but he’s slower. It’s all I need.
I blame my slowed reaction on the previous fights, but he manages to get me to the floor. Unlucky for him, I’ve been training for moments exactly like this, and with men bigger than him.
I guess I have another thing to thank Alonzo and his brothers for the one time I sparred with them.
The gun in my hand goes flying, but I pay it no mind.
I bring my knee up, slamming it into his bicep when he reaches down to try and grab my hand, half-trapped under him.
He lets out a cry of pain, pulling away just enough that I can headbutt him and buck him off with every ounce of power I can manage.
He rolls, but I know we’re not done. Not yet. I don’t bother heading for my gun, moving quickly and slamming my fist into his face. It only pisses him off, and his own lands hard against my temple, dazing me.
Damn it.
Pure adrenaline keeps me moving, keeps me dodging, landing punches and kicks of my own. My strength and stamina are draining, and I know that’s what he wants. Wounded or not, he’ll never give in easily. It’s going to take a miracle to take him down, but I’ll fucking do it or I’ll let him kill me.
There’s no fucking way I’ll let him take me back. Never let him have that power over me again.
He lands another kick to my stomach, sending me crashing back into the wall. I slump, dazed, panting. My mind screams at me to get back up. Fight. Never give in. My body throbs with pain, unable to comply.
“Pathetic,” he pants. “Even now, after all of that, you don’t fight. I knew you would be a disappointment.” He gets to his feet, slower than before, hobbling as blood drips from gashes and wounds all over his face, arms, and neck. It’s fucking satisfying seeing it.