Chapter 22
Gemma
My hand moves.
Not consciously. Not with thought or planning.
It just moves on its own, like it isn't attached to my body.
His letter opener—ornate, sharp—sits on the edge of his desk, and it's suddenly in my palm. I don't remember picking it up. Don't think I make a conscious decision. I'm acting on instinct.
Alexei's still talking. Still touching me. Still saying something about masters and cages and pretty birds.
The blade goes into his neck.
Soft. That's the first thing I notice. How soft skin is. How easily it parts. It's like cutting through butter. The cliché is apt.
What no one prepares you for is the blood.
It sprays across my face. My chest. Warm and wet and copper-tasting when it hits my lips. It's almost comical in how much there is.
It's like something out of a movie.
Alexei makes a sound. Not a scream. More like surprise. A wet gurgle. I think he's choking, but I'm not sure. It feels like I'm far away, experiencing this from above instead of an active participant.
His hands go to his throat. Trying to stop it. Trying to hold himself together.
I pull the letter opener out.
Stab again.
And again.
And again.
"I'm—" Stab. "—not—" Stab. "—anyone's—" Stab. "—fucking—" Stab. "—PET!"
The last word comes out as a scream.
He's on the floor now. I don't remember him falling. Don't remember getting on top of him.
But I'm here. Stabbing down over and over.
The letter opener is slippery, and I take a second to adjust my grip. Feel it bite into my palm. I don't stop for more than a few seconds before I rain down more blows.
His blood is everywhere. On my hands. My arms. My face. My clothes.
In my mouth. In my eyes.
I can't see through it.
Can't breathe through it.
And yet, I can't stop. I don't until my arm gets tired.
I'm exhausted and shaking, breathing hard as I slam back into my mind.
When did I get on top of him? When did he fall?
I can barely hold the letter opener anymore.
My arm weighs a ton, and yet, I somehow manage to keep control of the handle.
I look down at Alexei.
His eyes are open. Empty. Staring at nothing.
His throat is—
The haze that had taken over me falls away, and it's like someone slams me into a cold bath.
I scramble backward, off his body, still holding the letter opener just in case he magically awakens.
I'm honestly not sure if I'm hallucinating or not.
I try to stand. My legs won't hold me, and I collapse against the wall breathing heavily.
The adrenaline is fading. I'm shaking. Weak. I haven't eaten in days and I just—
I just stabbed a man to death.
I hold my breath and wait. My mind races, but with the fog lifted, I know I need to be quiet.
Still.
There's no noise. Alexei isn't breathing. He's deader than a fucking doornail, but he's not what I'm afraid of. I grip the letter opener and wait.
Footsteps in the hall get closer, and my heart stops as I hear a knock on the door.
"Boss? You need anything?"
I freeze. Letter opener still in hand.
Another knock. "Boss?"
I hold my breath. Don't move. Don't breathe.
Finally: "Must be busy. Told me not to disturb him anyway."
I wait. Count to one hundred in my head. Then two hundred.
Nothing.
No alarms. No shouting. No one else coming.
I look at the clock. How long has it been? I check my phone with shaking, blood-slicked hands. I can barely grip it as I try to slide it on, so it's unlocked.
Shit. Fifteen minutes since—
It's just me and Alexei's body. Blood is everywhere. It's pooling underneath him, and I'm surprised that there is so much of it.
His face is frozen in fear and surprise, and I can see the tendons and muscle of his throat. The sight of it makes me gag, and yet...I'm darkly impressed with myself.
He never stood a chance. He never saw me coming. So many men died at his hands, and yet, I bested him. Without even thinking about it or trying.
I killed him.
I killed Alexei Morozov.
The Pakhan of the Russian Bratva.
In his own club.
In his own office.
A bubble of hysteria pulls in my chest, and I have to put a bloody hand over my mouth to stop myself from cackling at the thought.
For the first time in days, I feel something sharp and clear.
Not numbness. Not emptiness.
Terror.
Holy shit, what did I do?
What the fuck did I just do?
I'm in Morozov territory. In their club. With their dead Pakhan in a pool of blood on his floor, and I'm holding the murder weapon.
His men are downstairs, and they'll come up eventually to check on him. They'll find—
Me.
This.
I'm dead. I'm so fucking dead.
I need to—
Move. I need to move.
There are cuts across my palms where the letter opener slipped, and they sting.
As I look at it, I wonder who the hell to call.
Adrian? He'd probably thank whoever kills me for this.
Luc? He chose Adrian. Always chooses Adrian. He'd go right to him.
Police? I just murdered someone. They'd arrest me.
There's only one person.
One person who might come.
Even though I betrayed him. Even though I'm nothing to him now. Even though he hates me.
My fingers slip around the screen as I try to scroll through my contacts. It takes what feels like an eternity before I finally get it.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick up!
My panic grows until—
"Gemma?" Saint's voice. Confused. Concerned. "Where are you? I came home and you were gone—"
"I need help." My voice is shaking. "Please. I need." I sob.
"What's wrong? What happened?" I can hear rustling in the background, urgency.
"I'm at Eclipse. Alexei's club. In his office. He's—" My voice breaks. "There's so much blood."
"What?" His voice is sharp. Disbelieving. "What the fuck are you talking about? What were you doing with Alexei?"
"He called. I came. He tried to—" I can't explain. "It doesn't matter. He's dead, Saint. I killed him."
Silence. Long. Terrible.
He's not coming. I am so fucking dead. I was rash, impulsive, everything everyone always accuses me of being, and now, I'm going to pay for that with my life.
"Jesus Christ, Gemma." I can hear him moving, fast. "You're sure he's dead?"
"Yes." I look at the body. "Very sure."
His voice changes. Goes cold. Focused. "Anyone see what happened?"
"No. We're in his office. It's been maybe twenty minutes, and no one has come. He's just laying here. There's so much blood."
"Okay." I hear an engine starting. "Okay. Listen to me carefully. Lock the door. Don't touch anything else. Don't move the body. Don't clean anything. Just stay there."
"His men are downstairs—"
"I know. I'll handle it. Just stay in that office. Can you do that?"
I look at Alexei's body. At his empty eyes. I swallow.
"Yes."
"Gemma." His voice is firm. "Listen to my voice. You can do this. You've survived worse. You just need to hold on for twenty minutes. Can you give me twenty minutes?"
"What if someone comes?"
"Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. Understand?" A pause, and I hear someone else in the background. "Marcello's setting a fire in the warehouse next door. Big one. Fire trucks, evacuations, chaos. His men will be busy. You walk out in the confusion."
"A fire?" How did Saint get Marcello so quickly?
"When you hear the sirens, count to thirty, then unlock the door. There's a back hallway with service stairs. I'll meet you there."
"This is insane—"
"Twenty minutes."
"Okay."
"And Gemma? I've got you."
The line goes dead.
I collapse on the floor. Not because of guilt or a weak stomach, but because the adrenaline has left me and my body is giving out.
Twenty minutes.
Twelve hundred seconds.
I count them in my head.
I look at Alexei, and I feel pride.
That emotion makes me sick. This is not normal. I'm not normal.
There's a body three feet away from me. Dead at my hand. Mutilated.
I should feel guilty. Should feel horror. Should feel—
But I don't.
I feel—
Powerful.
For the first time in my life, I feel like myself. My true self.
Not good. Not happy. Not okay.
Alive.
Present.
Real.
I killed a man. Not a good man. A bad one. One who wanted to use me. Alexei underestimated me, and he paid the ultimate price.
My father did the same to my mother, and he met the same fate.
Women like me are not meant to be victims. We are the snakes slithering in the gardens, ready to strike when stepped on.
Alexei found that out the hard way.
The minutes tick by.
Five.
Ten.
Then I hear it.
Sirens. Getting louder. Closer.
Shouting downstairs. Russian. Urgent.
"Fire!"
"Next door—the warehouse!"
"Everyone out!"
Chaos erupts. Men shouting. Things crashing. Footsteps running.
I wait. Count to thirty like Saint said.
Then I stand. My legs are shaking. Weak. But I make them work.
I unlock the door. Peer out.
The hallway is empty. Everyone's gone. Evacuated.
I move fast. Down the back hallway Saint mentioned. My legs are jelly. Each step is harder than the last.
The service stairwell.
I start down. The stairs seem endless. My vision swims. I haven't eaten in days, and I just killed someone and my body is giving out.
I grip the railing. Force myself to keep moving.
One floor. Two.
I can hear sirens everywhere now. Fire trucks. Police. Chaos outside.
Finally, the bottom. A door leading to an alley.
I push through it.
Saint is there. Waiting.
His eyes go immediately to me. To the blood covering me. To my shaking hands.
To Alexei's blood dried on my face.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"He was touching me, trying to—" I swallow. "I shouldn't have come, but he wouldn't stop fucking calling me." I take a deep breath. "I just—I didn't plan this. I just..."
"Don't." He moves to me. Takes my arm. Supports my weight. "You did what you had to do."
"But I—"
"You survived. That's all that matters." He looks at my hands. Sees the cuts across my palms. His jaw tightens. "Christ, Gemma."
"The letter opener slipped. I didn't—"
"Come on. We need to move."
A car is waiting. Black SUV. Windows tinted.
Saint helps me into the back seat. I can barely climb in. He has to practically lift me.
He gets in after me.
"Drive."
The car moves immediately.
I sit there. Shaking. Blood drying on my skin. On my clothes. Everywhere. My hands sting. My legs won't stop trembling.
Saint pulls out his phone. "We're clear.
Yeah, she's with me." A pause. "How long for cleanup?
" Another pause. "And the body?" He's quiet, listening.
"That's going to be complicated... Yeah, I know.
We'll deal with the fallout when it comes.
One crisis at a time." He glances at me.
"Yeah, we're going to the safe house. I'll call you in an hour. "
He hangs up.
"Safe house?" I ask. "Why aren't we going to the compound?"
"Can't take you back to the compound looking like this. Staff would talk." He looks at me. Really looks at me. "We'll get you cleaned up. Get rid of the clothes. Then we'll figure out next steps."
"Next steps?"
"Alexei's men will want answers. There's going to be a power vacuum." Saint stops. "Fuck."
"He doesn't have an heir?"
I know Alexei doesn't have children, but usually, there's some sort of succession.
"No," Saint says.
"Is that bad?"
"Depends." He looks at me. Studies my face. "Doesn't matter," he mutters. "It actually works in our favor. The Russians will be so busy fighting amongst themselves, they won't worry about looking too closely at who killed their Pakhan."
I don't say anything.
He takes my hand carefully. Avoids the cuts. "You're safe."
Safe.
The word feels foreign.
I don't feel safe.
I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff.
One more step and I fall.
Or fly.
I don't know which.
"I killed someone," I whisper.
"Yes."
"I stabbed him. Over and over. I couldn't stop."
"I know."
"I should feel—" What? Guilty? Horrified? "Something."
"Do you?"
I think about it. Really think.
"No." The admission feels dangerous. "I just feel—"
"Powerful?"
I look at him. "Yes. How did you know?"
"Because that's how it feels. The first kill." His thumb traces my knuckles carefully. Avoiding the cuts. "Welcome to the family business."
The words should terrify me.
They don't.
Because he's right.
I'm not the ghost anymore.
I'm not the broken thing.
I'm something new.
Something dangerous.
Something that can kill.
And for the first time in weeks, I don't want to disappear.
I want to see what comes next.
Even if it destroys me.
Even if it destroys us both.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now we clean you up. Get rid of the evidence." He pauses. "The body... Marcello's people will handle the scene. But a body like that? The head of the Bratva? That's complicated. We'll deal with the fallout when it comes."
The car pulls up to a building I don't recognize.
Saint gets out. Comes around. Helps me out. I can barely stand. He supports most of my weight.
We're somewhere in Queens. Industrial area. No one around.
He leads me inside. Up the stairs, to an apartment that's clearly not lived in. A Marini safe house. And this definitely qualifies as an emergency.
"Bathroom's through there." He points. "Burn the clothes. Everything. Shower until the water runs clear. I'll get you something to wear."
I nod. Move toward the bathroom. Each step is an effort. I am so tired. Moreso than I think I've ever been in my life. Every inch of my body aches, and I want to just curl in on myself and sleep, but I push forward, doing what Saint commands.
"Gemma."
I turn.
"You did good." His voice is quiet. "You survived. That's all that matters."
I want to believe him.
Want to believe that killing someone is just survival, and that I'm not a monster.
That this feeling, this awful, wonderful feeling of being alive, is okay, and not insanity taking root.
But I don't know.
I don't know anything anymore. Everything is confusing. I'm covered in blood, and I can't think clearly.
I go into the bathroom. Close the door.
Look at myself in the mirror.
Blood everywhere. My face. My hair. My clothes.
My hands—cuts across both palms. Evidence of what I did.
A killer stares back from the mirror.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.
When I open them again, I don't look away.
I get to work.