Chapter 5 A
Iknow there’s a limit on how many painkillers a person can safely down, but I’m pretty sure I’m way past the recommended dosage.
The room still spins, my head feels stuffed with cotton, and my side throbs with a dull ache.
I’ve stitched myself up more times than I can remember—always a rush job, just enough to keep me from bleeding out—but this time?
This time I took it slow, made sure it was right, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that I was shot.
Twice. And the fact that I’ve seen a Sovereign up close—too close.
The reek of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and whatever sickly-sweet vape flavor the kid next to me is blowing out isn’t doing my queasy stomach any favors.
“Did you hear the news?” Ivan slides up to the counter, dropping off a fresh set of shot glasses.
“What news?” I barely look up.
“Mira’s kid was found,” he says, lowering his voice as his eyes dart around the club, making sure no one’s listening in.
“Seriously?” I widen my eyes and attempt to sound surprised. I should win a damn Oscar for my acting skills.
“Yeah. Kid was found a few nights ago, at her divorce attorney’s office. Poor little guy was a mess—covered in blood and bruises. Half-starved. Kept babbling about an angel and fire.” He continues muttering under his breath in Russian.
My eyes scan the dimly lit club, the bass pounding through the floor, rattling in my bones.
Mira’s in the far corner, giving some slob a lap dance topless.
She’s a disaster, spiraling ever since her dirtbag ex-husband beat the hell out of her and snatched their kid when she wouldn’t push his drugs.
One of Thames’s men, a dirty cop. And Mira’s a dancer working at a Russian strip club—not exactly a winning look in court.
It took me nearly a month to track down where they were keeping her son, Liam.
A month of shadowing her scumbag ex-husband and his dirty cop buddies.
I watched, waited, and bided my time until the perfect moment to strike—didn’t know the Sovereign was after him too.
And now I’ve got two gunshot wounds as a souvenir of that shitshow.
The Thames operation is dead, at least that’s what the news says. But I’m not stupid. These operations have a nasty habit of crawling back out of the darkness, stronger and meaner. It’s a never-ending war. But for now, I can breathe. I can heal.
I can take a damn break from trying to make a dent in the endless corruption.
People like Mira don’t have anyone watching their backs.
I glance across the room at her, and for the first time in weeks, she’s smiling—a real, genuine smile.
People don’t give a damn about a sex worker’s kidnapped kid.
No one cares about the poor. It’s the wealthy, the connected—the ones who matter in society’s eye—who get the world’s protection.
I learned young that the world doesn’t give a shit about you. Orphaned as a little kid, like some cliché out of a tragic backstory. No one looks out for you, no one’s in your corner. You either fight back, or you become a victim. And my father refused to ever let me become a victim.
He wanted me to be able to protect myself because he knew the monsters that lurked in the dark—he was one of them. One of the worst, actually.
He started my training when I was barely five years old. I learned how to fight. How to kill. How to survive.
I loved him more than anything. Then he was taken from me. Ripped away violently.
I drag my fingers along the thin gold necklace around my neck. The only piece of my mother I’ve ever had. She died before I could even remember her. Cancer, I think. My dad never talked about it. But he did the best he could to raise his only child in the life he chose.
Now, I’m here, in this dingy strip club, with stitched up gunshot wounds, trying not to down a bottle of vodka just to numb the pain.
Life’s a real bitch.
“A, look! I found this flyer at my boyfriend’s MMA gym.” Roxy slides into the barstool, a mischievous grin on her face, and plops a folded flyer in front of me. “I know how much you love to kick all the boys’ asses,” she says with a wink. “I thought this might be your thing.”
I glance down at the crumpled paper, a picture of a cage and the words “Fight Night” scrawled across the top. “I’ve had enough ass-kicking for one week, thanks,” I mutter, wiping down the sticky bar counter.
Ivan scoffs, leaning against the liquor shelves behind me with a scowl. He grumbles in Russian before shooting Roxy a glare. “A is done with this fighting business, for a long time.”
Roxy waves the flyer in front of me with a playful glint in her eye, ignoring Ivan.
I’ve been working at this bar for almost a year, the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place. It’s not bad. I like the crowd. Roxy is a lot of fun. And Ivan’s not a bad boss.
I glance at the flyer, then back at her, and mutter, “I’ll think about it,” as I slide it under the bar and turn away.
I’m not in the mood for another round in the ring. The bullet wounds are a painful reminder that maybe I should keep a lower profile. But the nagging thought that I’m getting rusty, that complacency is creeping in, keeps me from fully brushing it off.
I shouldn’t have been shot. I’m better than that.
A slurred voice slices through the noise of the bar. “Hey, baby. How ‘bout a private dance?” A drunk grabs Roxy’s arm, yanking her towards him. I’m about to smash his face with the baseball bat I keep under the counter, but her laugh and smile tell me she’s handling it just fine.
He presses his face into her cleavage, mumbling incoherently. “Easy,” Ivan says, leaning in and catching my eye just as I reach for the bat again. His look is a firm no. “He’s harmless and pays well.”
“Whatever.” I toss the bar towel down.
The night drags on with the usual monotony—girls stripping, guys tossing cash, and drinks flowing like there’s no tomorrow.
By 3:30 a.m., my side and arm are throbbing, and all I can think about is collapsing into my bed.
I’m practically slumped against the counter, trying to ease the relentless ache as I finish up the last of the dirty dishes.
“I’m out. Front’s locked up. Just grab the back door when you’re done,” Ivan calls, his footsteps fading toward the exit. He pauses on his way out, shooting me a look. “Get some rest. You look like hell,” he mutters in Russian.
“Spasibo.” I roll my eyes as I listen to the soft click of the door shutting behind him. Silence falls, leaving me alone in the dimly lit kitchen. I dry my hands, toss the towel aside, and drag myself toward the back door, ready to disappear into the night.
The front door creaks open and slams shut.
“Ivan! I told you I could lock up!” I call, heading toward the bar to catch his usual scowl.
But the second I step out, my blood turns cold.
A tall, broad-shouldered man looms in the entrance. His presence swallows the room whole, dragging every shadow into him.
His jet-black messy hair, and those damn blue eyes send an irritating jolt of fear and rage through me. Tattoos snake down his neck and under the tight grey shirt clinging to every contour of his muscles.
Priest.
My mind races, plotting five different ways to escape. The front door is out of the question—he’s blocking that. But the back door leads to an alley where I can attempt to scale a fence and disappear into the maze of side streets.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I slide my hand to the knife tucked into my boot. It won’t take him down, but it’ll slow him enough for me to slip away. I’ll take any advantage I can.
“You made a mistake. I don’t let people steal from me. You’re not walking out of here. Not after what you pulled.”
“Try and stop me.”
His eyes flick down to the blade. “You really think you’re going to kill me with that?”
“Not kill. Mutilate. Way more satisfying.” I know the odds: he’s stronger, bigger, and more skilled. But I’m quick, smart, and fueled by the desperation to survive. I clench my jaw, forcing my breath to remain steady.
“Mutilate me?” His mouth curves into an insult of a smirk. “Kitten, I’m going to make you beg for mercy.”
I snap my arm up, sending the knife flying straight at his face. He dodges with infuriating ease, but the blade catches his cheek, leaving a thin, angry slice.
I bolt for the back, fling the door open—but it never makes it past halfway. A crushing force slams it shut.
One arm locks around my waist, yanking me back against his chest like I weigh nothing. My scream dies in my throat. His body is hard, solid steel pressing against my spine.
“You think this is a game?”
I twist, kick, fight, but it’s useless. His grip tightens, forearm digging into my ribs. Every breath’s a struggle.
“Let. Me. Go.”
He presses his face to my ear. The scent of him—mint and metal—makes me nauseous.
“You screamed when I shot you. Let’s see how loud you get this time.”
His hand finds the bandage under my hoodie and presses down. Hard. My knees buckle, pain searing through me like fire. I choke on the sound trying to claw its way out.
“Come on. Let me hear your pretty scream.”
“Fuck you,” I spit out through clenched teeth.
He laughs. “Maybe later. You’ll beg for that too.” The burn of unshed tears prickles my eyes, but I bite them back, locking down every sliver of pain.
I inch my hand toward the knife in my back pocket, but before I can even grip it, his cold fingers close around my throat, crushing down. Gasping, I fight for air as he presses harder on my wound.
“Scream,” he snarls in my ear. I grit my teeth, stubborn, hanging onto the last shred of control I have left.
He sighs then drives his thumb into my wound, ripping the stiches. A wave of searing pain tears through me and a strangled scream escapes. He lets go of my throat, and I gulp down air.
Relief is short-lived.
He’s distracted for half a second.