Chapter Forty #2
Another twenty minutes pass. I start shifting my weight and growing worried. I don’t know how long it’s supposed to take Connor, Seamus, and Asher to exterminate Carver’s men—maybe something went wrong. One of them could’ve gotten hurt, even killed—
“They’re fine, baby,” Dorian murmurs, covering his words with a kiss on my cheek. “You’re doing so well. I’m so fucking proud that you’re mine.”
A great deal of my concern flees. Warmth at his praise bathes my chest, almost making me forget about our current predicament.
That is, until Dorian backs away, and I lock eyes with Clyde, who’s glaring at me from across the room.
When Dorian’s hand cups my hip, Clyde’s jaw flexes, and his glare deepens.
I force myself to hold his eyes for several infinitely long moments, until he finally looks away as Sergei addresses him.
“What will your role be if I do business with your boss?” Sergei asks Clyde.
Clyde sits up a bit straighter. “I cook the books and keep the men in line.”
A thin smile spreads on Sergei’s lips. “Anyone with a fifth-grade education and some muscle can do those jobs.”
“Not like me,” Clyde promises. “I specialize in sending messages to enemies of our operation.”
“He’s an excellent enforcer,” Carver endorses.
“I see. You gentlemen are, of course, aware of my policies when it comes to business. I have lines that I do not cross, and that I strongly discourage my associates from crossing. Enforce all you like, but women and children are to be kept out of it at all costs.”
“Of course,” Carver agrees instantly. “We’d never go out of our way to harm innocents. There are unfortunate times when they get caught in the crosshairs, but—”
“Those times are now at an end,” Sergei says, his voice deepening. “This is not a negotiation. You cross my lines, you cross me. I don’t think I need to tell you what happens to those who cross me.”
“We’ll keep that in mind going forward,” Carver replies.
“If I could say a few words, Mr. Novikov?” Clyde questions.
Sergei tilts his head slowly. “As long as you don’t waste my time with bullshit.”
“I’ll make this quick. You see, Mira is my stepdaughter, and we’ve grown estranged ever since she ran off to that fancy college.”
My blood runs cold. My heart stutters and nearly stops. Dorian’s grip on me turns to steel as we both try to figure out what the fuck Clyde’s angle is here.
“I’ve tried to reach out and rekindle our relationship several times, but she’s never given me the chance,” Clyde goes on.
“Then, a few months ago, I heard through the grapevine that she’d shacked up with one of your soldiers.
I finally managed to get a hold of her, and she indicated that it wasn’t of her own free will.
In accordance with your own rules about leaving women out of business, I have to bring up my concern about your foot soldier.
” Clyde turns to stare in my direction, fixing his gaze on Dorian.
There’s shielded amusement and victory in his eyes, like he really expects his pathetic ploy to work.
Like he didn’t insult me outside just a few minutes ago, right in front of Sergei.
Clyde managed to do the near-impossible by sounding genuine. Even though I know Sergei won’t feed into his bullshit, I feel an old sense of fear overcome me. A remnant from my time living under Clyde’s roof.
“Is that so?” Sergei drawls. He looks at Dorian and crooks a finger. “Forward, soldier. Bring your woman.”
Dorian takes my hand, enveloping it in his. I feel a fine tremble in my limbs as we walk forward, breaching the space between the staircase and the center of the room where the men are seated. We stop in front of Sergei, with our backs to Clyde and Carver.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Dorian?”
The energy in the room snaps taut, but not just from Dorian’s impending words.
It takes me a moment to realize the vibes of the building have shifted—something’s going on upstairs.
I try to focus in, to find a hint of something familiar…
and then I feel it. Three very distinct presences belonging to three very distinct people.
“Clyde is lying,” Dorian says simply.
Clyde opens his mouth to protest; Sergei holds up a sharp hand, cutting him off before he can speak.
“Are you sure about your answer?” Sergei asks Dorian.
“Categorically.”
“Hmm.” Sergei shifts his gaze over to me. After a moment, he beckons me to step forward. The energies in the building turn more tumultuous, more dangerous, but that perversely makes me feel better.
“Mira, was it?” Sergei asks, as if he’s only seen me in passing.
I nod, playing along.
“You don’t have to fear any reproach from me. Tell the truth; are you with my soldier of your own freewill?”
“I am,” I tell Sergei firmly. “If I can speak openly?”
“I’d prefer if you did.”
“Dorian has never done anything to harm me. He’s never raised a hand to me, never made me feel poorly about myself or like I’m a burden in his life.
He makes me feel safe, coveted, and protected.
” I inhale a deep breath. “But there is a person in this room who has harmed me. Who enjoyed beating me. Who made a pointed effort to remind me of how much of a burden I was—who nearly killed me at least half a dozen times, and nearly got me killed more times than I could count.”
I hear a rustle of fabric behind me as Clyde shifts in his seat, feel the animosity radiating from him double.
“And that man would be?”
“Clyde.”
“Lying bitch,” Clyde snaps. His chair shifts back as he stands from his seat.
I gasp as he grabs a fistful of my shirt and spins me around.
He truly didn’t expect me to speak out—I guess he figured I hadn’t changed over the years.
That I was the same timid, weak girl who scurried out of his shitty house and ran far away. I am certainly not.
His hold on my shirt is firm; if I try to get out of his grip, I’ll probably tear the fabric. So, I do the only thing I can think of doing to prove that I am not the Mira who ran from him.
I spit in his face.
From there, several things happen at once. Gunfire breaks out from above, the booming echoes of it deafening. Clyde draws out a gun and points it at my head, just as Dorian draws out his own weapon and points it at Clyde.
Every man in the room leaps to his feet and grabs his weapon. Total fucking chaos ensues.
Footsteps sound coming down the stairs just before Seamus and Asher make an appearance.
I knock the gun from Clyde’s hand with a swift, sharp jab, sending it flying to the ground.
He backhands me in the cheek so hard I’m sent stumbling backwards, pain exploding across my jaw.
Dorian fires off a shot just as one of Clyde’s men crashes into him from behind, fouling his aim.
Everything that happens after that is a blur.
Clyde grunts and his leg buckles. He manages to get a hand around my throat and take me to the ground, pinning me beneath him.
Before he can get a good enough grip to crush my windpipe, I knee him in the balls, making him release me with a high-pitched cry.
I swipe the knife hidden in my boot and take a second to glance around, taking stock of this clusterfuck.
Bullets fly above us, some burying into the cement walls, some ricocheting, others piercing through the barrels and spilling the liquors hidden inside. I glimpse Dorian grappling with two of Carver’s men.
Clyde doesn’t take long to recover and leap on top of me again, but this time, I’m ready for him.
I let him get his hand around my throat again.
I look him dead in the eyes, and spit on his face once again.
He jerks back, yelling an obscenity at me, and I take his moment of distraction to grip his wrist and slice through the vulnerable underside of it.
This time, Clyde roars.
Blood spurts from his hand, staining my face and neck. I lunge forward and bury the knife so deep in the base of his throat, the blade disappears into his skin.
A single trickle of blood runs from the wound. Clyde’s eyes meet mine, widened with shock and brightened with fear.
He attempts to reach his injured hand up to his neck. Fails. Opens his mouth to say something, only for a gurgle of blood to rush from his lips, trapping his words.
The gunfire around us is dying down; Carver’s men are dropping like flies. I can take a beat to enjoy this moment, revel in it. Bathe in the way I’ve flipped the tables on Clyde.
Once, I was the vulnerable little girl who gazed at him with fear, hoping that he’d change overnight into a better man. Into a decent stepfather. I hoped he’d leave his abusive ways behind.
Now, he’s turned into the helpless child, incapable of caring for himself or keeping himself alive. I leave the blade in his neck, not ready for him to die quite yet. Spotting the gun he dropped a few feet to the left of me, I pick it up.
A single push to Clyde’s chest sends him to the ground. His entire body shakes with pain and lack of oxygen. I crouch over him, pressing the barrel of the gun to his forehead, letting him see the vengeance in my eyes.
“I don’t like the act of killing,” I say softly, “but killing you is an exception. This is for all the times you hurt me.” I swiftly reposition the gun, firing off a shot into his gut.
He releases a gurgle that pours more blood from his lips, eyes wide, body seizing.
I return the gun to his forehead, pressing it right between his eyes. “And this is for my mother.”
I pull the trigger.