Chapter 19 #2
He sobbed harder as I took my place in front of him and pulled the revolver from the holster tucked at my side. Slowly, methodically, I unloaded it. Then pulled another two bullets from my pocket and stood them up in a neat little row on the table, like soldiers awaiting orders.
"You have seven fingers left, my friend. We are going to play a little game. Seven bullets for seven fingers."
"There are eight bullets," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
"The bonus round," I said, the corners of my mouth pulling into a sinister smile as I took the first bullet and slid it in the chamber before spinning it and clipping it closed .
He tried to pull away as I held the muzzle to his right index finger and repeated my question.
"Who do you owe money to?"
"I can't—" he cried, and I fired the gun.
The hollow click echoed in the hangar, and Richard's shoulders sagged as he sobbed.
"Lucky you, you get to keep pushing buttons and pointing at things, for now." I opened the gun and placed another bullet in the cylinder and spun it again, placing it against his thumb. "The first time you had a one-in-six chance, it's now a two-in-six. Do you like those odds?"
"No, please."
"Tell me who owns your debt," I yelled.
He let out a strangled sob, and I pulled the trigger. The shot was loud, and his blood and bone sprayed over the table. He screamed, his entire body jerking.
"Uh, boss." One of my men nodded under the table. I looked below and saw the bullet not only blew off his thumb, but blew through his shoe about where his big toe would have been.
"Hey." I turned to Damien and Mikhail. "I got a two-fer."
"Nice." Damien nodded.
"Bonus points." Mikhail lifted his chin in approval.
"Next hand," I said, turning back to Richard and loading in another bullet. "Still a two-in-six."
"The Colombians," he screamed. " Los Infideles . They are the ones I owe the most to. They are the ones getting paid by Alina. Please, I need a hospital."
"Fuck," Damien groaned behind me .
Ignoring Richard and his pathetic cries, I turned to Damien to see the exasperated look of annoyance.
"What?"
Damien gave a wry smirk. "Let's just say we don't have the best relationship with them. After all, we slaughtered their leader and half their enforcers when we rescued my wife."
Because, of course, this couldn't be as simple as paying off some street gang.
The implications hit me immediately. I thought about Alina and the power struggle between Artem and Gregor.
I carefully weighed my options.
Alina was just some cleaner who had seen something she shouldn't have. Or at least that was what she should've been.
She was more, so much more. I wasn't sure what she was, but I knew I wasn't ready to let her go.
The others wouldn't understand, and I really wasn't sure I understood either.
I should've just washed my hands of the entire thing.
Killed this asshole and his daughter. The Columbians need never know I was ever involved. They would probably assume that Richard owed someone else money. Hell, he probably did.
It would have been so easy to kill him and Alina, let the old woman face whatever consequences life and death had for her, and move on with my life.
But then images of Alina flooded my mind—the way she'd yielded to me, fought me, surrendered to me.
Then I thought of how hungrily her cunt clamped onto my fingers, how sweet her cunt tasted, and how good it felt when her wet, sultry heat milked my cock as I pushed through her innocence.
I came to one simple conclusion.
Fuck it.
"Well, it's about to get worse, because I intend to kill every one of those fuckers," I said with a twisted smile.
"Is it worth it, starting a war over this woman?" Damien asked quietly as he rubbed the edge of his jaw.
An unfamiliar wave of possessiveness crashed over me as I thought of Alina—my Alina.
I thought of her dainty softness against my body, how her eyes slid closed as she tried not to give in to the passion just before she came, the way fire flared in those same eyes when she felt cornered.
"Yes."
I couldn't explain it, but there was something fragile and vulnerable yet feisty about her that deeply intrigued me. I wanted more, and no one was going to take her away from me.
Damien cleared his throat. "You know we're going to have to make a decision about her. Loose ends and all that."
"She's my problem," I said too quickly.
"She can directly implicate our family in a murder. She's all of our problem," Mikhail said, with a knowing look in his eyes. "One way or another, she will have to be dealt with."
"It's about the only thing Artem and Gregor agree on. Something will need to be done about her," Damien added.
The reminder sent cold dread through my veins .
The Ivanovs didn't kill women…unless it was absolutely necessary.
Mikhail crossed his arms over his chest. "You could just marry her."
He and Damien laughed at the joke, but I said nothing.
The suggestion wasn't as absurd as they thought.
Marry Alina?
Marry Alina.
I turned the idea over in my head. The words should have sounded foreign, strange—bitter even. Never once in my whole damn life had I ever considered taking a wife…or having children. My world was violent and unpredictable. There was no room for a woman in it.
Or so I thought.
But these last few months, seeing my brothers who used to feel the same way go from making fun of my “Americanized” cousins and their domestic bliss to sharing in it, had changed something.
The other night they invited me to stay for fondue…whatever the fuck that was.
Apparently, the wives had planned a "fun" night of food and games at Gregor's house. I'd been there for a status meeting on tracking down Alina's piece of shit father, when we broke up early because Samara had entered the room to gently remind him that dinner was ready.
The transformation was startling.
It was jarring to see the change in Gregor.
He'd gone from the ruthless man I knew who ruled over our bratva with an iron fist, to a charming, doting husband right before my eyes .
I'd seen the same change in both of my brothers. There was something about their women that softened the sharp edges of their lives.
It had me questioning my own life.
In the end…what was the fucking point of it? All of it.
The money. The violence. The crude brutality of my world.
If there wasn't someone soft and warm waiting for me at home.
Home. Not a house. A home.
A woman could make a home. Children could make a home.
And if my brothers and cousins could wash off the blood and achieve some semblance of a real life…one filled with meaning, love, and laughter…then why couldn't I?
The concept solidified in my mind.
Take Alina as my wife.
She would be mine completely—legally, socially, under God, irrevocably mine.
Mine.
My wife.
Marry her to keep her, protect her…build a life with her.
If there was one thing the men in my family had in common, it was that they married fighters. Strong women who were filled with fire and sass. A woman would need those qualities if she were to survive in my world.
Alina was a fighter.
Right now, she was tucked safely in bed. My bed .
If I married her, it would solve the issue of her being a dangerous liability.
But more than that—she would belong to me in every way that mattered.
The thought of calling her my wife sent an unexpected thrill through me.
Something twisted in my chest, an unfamiliar eagerness to return to her.
I wondered if she would still be asleep. Her eyes closed and her lips barely parted?—
My reverie shattered as a different realization crashed over me.
Ice shot through my veins and a sharp, immediate panic hit me.
I forgot to cuff her back to the bed. Fuck.