Chapter 22
Indigo
Malachai came out of nowhere.
The crowd seemed to part for him instinctively, a collective shudder rippling through the room as if everyone could feel the sub-zero chill radiating off his skin.
“Who the fuck is this?” His voice was dead flat.
He sized Cooly up in a fraction of a second, his entire posture shifting into something instantly lethal. The air in my lungs turned to dust.
Panic flashed hot in my throat. I took a quick step back, putting distance between myself and Cooly, my mind scrambling to fix a situation that was already sliding off a cliff.
I tried to smooth things over, forcing a tight, artificial smile.
“He’s a friend from New York. Cooly kept me safe while I was up there.
He helped me when things got really bad, Malachai. ”
Malachai didn’t blink. He didn’t even acknowledge that I had spoken. His gray eyes stayed locked on Cooly like he was already measuring him for a pine box.
Cooly just smiled—that same calm, unbothered grin I’d seen a thousand times in New York. “Chinedu Balogun,” he said, extending a hand.
The moment the words left his mouth, cold dread dropped into my stomach. His thick New York accent was gone, replaced by a smooth, melodic Nigerian cadence that sounded infinitely more dangerous.
Who the fuck was this man?
Malachai’s head tilted slightly, a predator recognizing another wolf. “And what exactly did you do for my wife while she was playing runaway?” His voice dropped an octave, the word wife sounding like both a claim and a threat. “And why are you here?”
Cooly shrugged, voice entirely too smooth.
“Gave her new papers. New name. New life. Made sure the wolves didn’t eat her.
” He paused, then dropped the bomb like it was nothing.
“I’m here to tell her the Volkovs are dead, Malachai.
Every single one of them. You’ve been lying to her this whole time.
Keeping her scared and caged for no fucking reason. ”
The air went ice cold.
Every ounce of guilt I’d been carrying for the last two weeks evaporated, replaced by pure fury. He had lied to me.
Malachai moved without hesitation.
In one fluid motion, he drew the pistol from beneath his jacket and pressed the suppressor directly against the center of Cooly’s forehead. The metallic click of the hammer being cocked echoed like a gunshot.
Guests gasped. A woman stifled a scream. People scrambled backward, knocking over glasses and chairs as they cleared a wide circle around us.
Malachai’s voice didn’t rise. It stayed flat. Deadly.
“You should’ve stayed in New York.”
His finger was already tightening on the trigger.
Cooly didn’t flinch. If anything, his smile widened.
Before Malachai could squeeze, a deep voice cut through the chaos.
“Put it down, Malachai.”
Caine stepped forward, tall and imposing, flanked by two of his own security.
“You shoot him at my brother’s party and I have to go to war with the Nigerians,” Caine said flatly.
Malachai’s jaw flexed. For one terrifying second, I saw it in his eyes—he didn’t care. He was going to pull the trigger anyway.
“Please, Malachai…” I whispered.
He turned his head just enough to look at me, sneered, then slowly lowered the weapon. But his fingers clamped around my upper arm like a vice.
“We’re leaving.”
He yanked me forward so hard I nearly came out of my heels.
“Malachai—let go of me!” I screamed, twisting and fighting against his grip as he dragged me through the staring crowd.
He ignored me completely.
“Malachai, stop! You’re hurting me!”
He didn’t slow down. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t stop until we reached the waiting SUV. He threw the door open, shoved me violently into the back seat, and slammed in right behind me.
“Home. Now,” he barked at the driver.
The car peeled off, tires screeching against the asphalt.
I sat as far away from him as possible, back pressed against the door, breathing hard. My heart was racing a million miles an hour.
The night had officially gone to hell.