Chapter Twenty-Two
Juliet
I’m still humming from Reid. The good kind of ruined.
Vitaly’s bringing his things over tonight. First load of boxes. First drawer. First toothbrush.
We even set a date for dinner with Reid. Letting Vitaly breathe first. Letting the dust settle before we introduce him to the chaos of family dinner where I’ll end up on the table. The platter for dessert.
Work is dragging.
Noah’s working the bakery so Vitaly can pack.
I pull up the feed to Vitaly’s house while I pretend to work.
Bedroom’s quiet. Boxes scattered like he gave up halfway through folding. Clothes in neat, precious stacks.
Kitchen’s worse. Chaos. A war crime of packing tape.
Living room…
Oksana.
My whole body goes cold.
The purse packs itself.
Because what the actual fuck is that bitch doing in his house?
Then she draws.
Glock jammed under his chin like she’s taking his temperature with murder.
The world narrows to a single red dot.
I pass my boss’s door without stopping. “Family emergency. Broken bone. ER.”
Voice shaking. Hands worse.
“Tell Orion I hope it’s not the other wrist,” my boss calls after me.
ER trips with him happen enough, no one questions it.
I cross the lot in a full sprint, eyes still on the live feed.
She hits him.
Pistol whips him. Hard, across the temple.
My vision whites out.
I throw everything in the passenger seat and peel out toward the sporting goods store.
I won’t risk the discount store being out of stock.
This bitch doesn’t get a pass because of poor inventory planning.
Because this?
This is too much.
She crossed the line.
Crossed my line.
She didn’t just yell. She didn’t just grab his lapel.
She pulled a gun. She hit him.
By the time I get to the store lot, he’s collapsed on the couch, shaking.
Goddamn it, baby.
He needs me.
But first?
Her.
This will never happen again.
I storm into the store and head straight for the bats.
Tammy’s was light. Worked, but took too much upper body effort.
Oksana’s not Tammy.
She’s not throwing slippers and sobbing about closure.
She’ll be armed. Quick. Dirty. One-shot kind of woman.
Which means I only get one swing.
It needs to count.
I check the feed again.
He’s still there.
On the couch.
Shaking.
Oh, baby. I’ve got you.
I pull out my phone.
Me: Vitaly looks off. Wellness check?
Callum: On it. Burgers and shakes.
Good.
No need to say what I saw.
If Callum knew, he’d want to handle it himself.
The others would say wait.
Neither of those work.
This one’s mine.
There it is.
Pink. Shiny. Sparkles.
Just like Tammy’s, but heavier. Better balanced.
An upgrade.
I give it a test swing in the aisle.
The lady two rows over yelps.
I smile.
Perfect weight for turning a Russian mob boss into pulled pork.
If I hit her fast enough, she won’t get the safety off.
And that gun?
That’s going in Vitaly’s nightstand.
A trophy.
A promise.
I drop the bat in the cart.
A bony, glitter-smudged, disturbingly reverent hand reaches in and plucks it out again.
“No,” says a voice like vape smoke and expired coupons.
I whirl, already halfway to throat-punching whoever the fuck he is.
And I freeze.
Because standing before me is a man in a yellow mesh crop top that reads: “I CAME FIRST. SO DID THE CHICKEN.”
He’s wearing feather-print bike shorts, a Bluetooth headset taped to his temple with medical gauze, and one Croc. Just one. The other foot bare and inexplicably dusted in what looks like crushed Cheetos. A single chicken feather earring the size of my forearm.
I blink.
He clucks.
Loud.
Authoritative.
Judgmental.
Then he lifts my bat in both hands like it’s diseased and whispers, “This one knew cowardice. Over easy. Betrayed the flock.”
“Hey,” I start.
But he’s already swapped it. My bat’s gone. Replaced with a different pink one. Matte finish, darker hue, subtle gold shimmer like someone dipped vengeance in Pepto-Bismol and rolled it in unicorn blood.
He slides it into my cart like he’s offering a weapon to Joan of Arc.
“The Coop offers you this.”
I stare. “I’m sorry. The... what?”
He stares back. Tilts his head. Once. Twice.
The Bluetooth beeps. He ignores it.
“The yolk sees you,” he says solemnly. “The beak has whispered your name into the shell.”
I stare at him. “Buddy, do you need a sandwich? Bus fare? An exorcism?”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer. Lays one hand reverently on the bat now in my cart, and whispers directly to the bat. “Strike true, sister. One swing for every stolen egg. Let her skull be the nest that never hatches.”
A single tear rolls down his cheek.
He bobs his head. “She knows how to swing without mercy and still cradle a hatchling.”
I don’t blink. “I... genuinely don’t know how to respond to that. Do you need money? A blanket?” He’s homeless? Insane?
He tilts his head.
Clucks three times, sharp, like a starting pistol.
“Feathers never forgive. Pecking order must be restored.”
Then he presses two fingers to his lips, transfers the kiss to the bat’s sweet spot, and moonwalks into the camping aisle, vanishing between pup tents like a poultry David Blaine.
Like he didn’t just perform a poultry séance in the middle of aisle seven and gift me a fucking enchanted vengeance bat.
I stare at the bat.
I weigh the new one in my hands.
It’s better. Balanced. Mean.
Juliet Lovelace does not tempt fate. Or fowl.
I am a lot of things.
But…
I am not brave enough to test the patience of a man in feather shorts who hears voices from eggs.
I keep the Coop’s bat.
In my car I Open the app to track Oksana.
Bitch had the good sense to leave Vitaly’s. She’s on the move. Headed to the warehouse district.
Probably looking for Dmitry. Or someone to take his place.
I prop the bat in the passenger seat. Nod at it and head after her.
I’m two blocks out when the tracker pings. Oksana’s Mercedes just rolled into an old cold-storage warehouse on Pier 19.
Place is a concrete box. One roll-up door, one man-door, cameras on the corners, two armed guys outside smoking like they’re waiting for the world to end.
Oksana’s inside, pacing, screaming at someone on the phone. I can hear her through the cracked loading-dock window.
I park between two shipping containers.
Options.
One. Frontal assault.
I die in three seconds.
Two. Wait for her to leave.
Me at her back.
Three.
Something so stupid it loops back around to genius.
I choose door number three.
In the trunk I’ve got:
- a bright yellow high-vis safety vest I stole from the city worker who got sassy with me
- a hard hat with a GoPro already mounted (Orion’s old one)
- a clipboard from work
I throw the vest on, slap on the hard hat and suddenly I’m city inspector.
I walk straight up to the two guards like I own the pier, bat over my shoulder like it’s a fluorescent light tube I’m replacing.
“Evening, boys. Got a surprise inspection and a Halon dump scheduled in two minutes. Your boss inside?”
Guard One immediately looks like he’s calculating how much prison time he gets for shooting a city worker.
Guard Two is already backing up. “We didn’t get no call.”
“Tell that to the fire marshal when this place turns into a vacuum chamber. Move,” I say.
They bolt inside to warn Oksana.
Perfect.
I follow ten steps behind, casual as hell.
Inside is big open space, pallets, one overhead sodium light flickering like a horror movie.
Oksana’s barking orders in Russian, gun out, looking for the threat that isn’t gas.
The guards are yelling over each other, pointing at me.
Oksana spins, raises the gun.
I flick the hard-hat light on, blinding 5,000 lumens straight into her face, and charge.
She flinches at the light for half a second.
That’s all I need.
I come in low under the gun, swing the Coop’s bat two-handed like I’m trying to hit a home run into next week.
Connects with her right wrist first. Bones crunch like dry kindling.
The gun clatters.
Second swing is already loaded.
She tries to duck.
The bat catches her across the temple with a sound like a watermelon dropped off a roof.
Oksana goes down hard. Out cold before she hits the concrete.
The two guards freeze, hands halfway to their own guns, suddenly remembering city workers aren’t supposed to smile like serial killers.
I plant the bat on Oksana’s chest like a flag.
“Inspection’s over, boys. Tell the fire marshal the building failed.”
They both aim at me.
Shit.
There’s two quick muffled pops.
The guards drop.
“What the fuck, Madness,” Callum says, lowering his weapon from the warehouse entrance.