Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Liam
R esting my eyes was a bad choice. I knew it as I did it. But Cece ran away, there were gunshots, and when I tried to follow, my leg gave out. I’m pretty sure I hit my head on the way down. Hence, resting my eyes.
But opening them to a dirt covered child with a semiautomatic has me convinced I’m dreaming.
Or that I’d hit my head harder than I’d thought.
“Up, O’Connell,” the kid says, and I laugh.
Then the tot pistol whips my already tender scalp, and my hands catch one of his bony wrists before I can stop myself. And that tiny, weaponless wrist is real enough for me to freeze. “Do not fucking hit me, kid. I’m having a shit night.”
“Same. Which is why I’m bringing your busted ass to my dad.” He twists his wrist, his other hand far enough away that I can’t quite reach the gun without risking my leg again. I consider tugging the kid into my lap and wrestling him for it, but he’s a kid. I can’t guarantee that he won’t shoot me by accident if I spook him.
This whole thing is fucked up. So, I hold on to his wrist long enough for the kid to know that I’m letting him free.
I might be a bit battle-worn, but I’ve got two decades and two feet on the pipsqueak. Even if the Sig evens things out considerably.
“If you can find a way for me to walk successfully, I’d be all ears,” I reply, motioning at my blood-dark, tulle covered leg.
The kid wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve, smearing more dirt than he’s clearing. “They left you to die. Some friends you’ve got, old man.”
I can’t say I’ve ever been called old before. First time for everything. But at least I know that the last time this kid saw Cece and Xander, they were both still alive. Good news, based on all the shooting that’s been going on. “I sure can pick them,” I say, wondering if I can win over this gun wielding preschooler. “Where were you hoping to bring me?”
“To your grave,” he answers, dropping his tone like he isn’t a soprano, like my destination is a surprise. I can see the backhoe if I peer around the tombstone I’m leaning against.
“Alright kid. Let’s get this over with,” I say, hoisting myself upright on one foot, the chunk of stone beside me the only thing keeping me vertical.
Then, because I’m an asshole at heart, I take my chance and dive at the kid, twisting the gun from his spindly fingers and pointing the damn thing right back at him.
Before I can figure out how to get the kid to lay off, though, a voice cuts from behind me. “Think about your next step, O’Connell. That’s my son you have there.”
I turn in place, pretending like I’m not using a gravestone to keep myself upright, and meet Mikhail Morozov’s pale gaze. “Starting him a little young, aren’t you?”
“Worked alright for your father,” he replies, motioning with his gun for me to toss him the Sig.
“Or maybe not, because here I am, not even thirty, and looking forward to a shallow grave.” I take apart the weapon and toss each piece into the darkness behind me.
“But you did plenty before now. Enough for your grandfather to name you heir apparent.”
“True. Ahead of even my father.”
His lips twist at that, before he motions for his kid to come to him, and the little guy does, trotting over like the well-trained mini mobster he must be. “Enough talk. Let’s get you lined up for a clean shot.”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
“How so? You walk, or I shoot.”
“When was the last time you hauled two hundred and sixty-five pounds of dead weight a quarter mile, Morozov? Because if the rumor mill is right, I’m not sure you’ve ever stooped to that level of grunt work.”
“I’ll wing you. You’ll be fine.”
“Your man already did one better. My leg’s been leaking for probably an hour. I’m not sure I can handle too much more blood loss. Where is ol’ Pinky anyways?”
Morozov huffs and whistles. A moment later, a different grunt jogs up beside him. “Go nowhere without help. You could learn from my example, O’Connell. If you were going to live past tonight, that is.”
With that, I’m ‘helped’ to my grave by this new minion, my leg numb and my head spinning.
I thought I was ready to die. Figured I have been since I first killed a man at twelve. Take a life, give a life, some sort of cosmic balance shit that’s been aching under my skin for years, only soothed at the bottom of a bottle.
I’ve spent most of my life surviving, not really living. I’ve got Xander and Eddie, that’s it. Not even a houseplant to worry about if I don’t make it home. As soon as I took that shot, I figured I’d sacrifice myself to get Xander out of here. Cece, too.
But there was something about that kiss.
An instant connection that screams I have something to live for. Something that sings, lights up, makes little hearts bobble around in my eyes, all that stupid poetic shit that I figured the lousy saps of the world made up. But maybe it’s not all idiot poets with nothing better to do. Maybe people really do change when they meet the right person.
The dream shatters as I approach my grave, even knowing that Cece could be that person for me.
At least she’ll have Xander. I hope they bond over my death, become some unstoppable duo, Eddie and Nat by their sides.
That thought has a few more falling into place. If Morozov is out here killing us, Nat must be in on it—and poor loyal-to-the-core Eddie is in for one shit awakening.
Why Cece’s caught up in this still makes no sense, though. Could it be jealousy? Cece’s gorgeous and powerful, but so is Nat. Nat’s old-fashioned, but that’s a virtue in our world. Tradition matters when you’re ruling an empire like a king over his country.
Confirming my suspicions, Nat steps out of the shadows, the excitement on her face telling me she’s hoping for some reaction from me.
“Hi there, Liam. Long time, no see,” she whispers in that annoying way she always does, so that people have to lean in to hear her, making her words feel important because you have to work to understand them. “I’m so glad you could make it. This is going to be such a fun night. All three of you, taken out at once? That power vacuum is exactly what my brother needs to climb to the top, and with me there by Eddie’s side, that family will have no choice but to give my poor, mourning husband the position he always should have had.”
Two heirs taken out at once would be a scramble, but I can’t figure out what else she’s yammering on about. Nat always loves to speak and make powerful people listen. “Hello, Natalia. It took you long enough to get here,” I reply instead of addressing her villain monologue.
Her brow crumples, frustrated that her revelation didn’t amount to much. “How’d you guess I’d be here?”
“He’s your brother, Nat. I might be morose and a borderline alcoholic, but I’m not an idiot.”
Morozov’s kid chuckles, then dodges out of reach of his father. The guard behind me also stifles a laugh, and while that wasn’t the goal, striking my best friend’s viper of a fiancée with a few choice words feels like a win here at the end.
“Well, I’d ask if you have any last words, but I think those were honest enough for an epitaph,” Morozov says, taking a few steps away from his son for a clean shot, Nat covering her ears with an eerie grin on her face.
Then shit gets weird.
A windy whistle sounds right as the grip of the henchman on my body slackens. I assume that I’m hearing the whoosh of the bullet before I die, instead of the bang. It makes as much sense as anything else. Only both the kid and Nat’s eyes get big, and instead of falling into my grave, the weight of the guard falls on top of me, with my bad leg getting the brunt of it, and we both go down in a mess of limbs and blood. Blood that isn’t mine.
Stranger than even that, though, is the vision of one Cece Rodriguez, covered in mud and a strapless minidress, swinging down from the bucket of the backhoe like Tarzan, and kicking Morozov in the chest.
That last bit was mostly a glancing blow, but the woman lands in a roll, grabs the kid, and hauls him up as a body shield.
That’s all I see before the handle of a knife, which just happens to be attached to the eye of the guard who used to have a hold of me, bashes me in the cheekbone.
It might be a mess, but a knife is a gift that won’t go unused.