Chapter 44
“Have you enjoyed my hospitality?”
They’re relatively well-trained, I have to give them that. Or at least Zakhar is. Oleg, for all his blustering ego, has tried to appease me in any way he can think of to save his life. Or to ease his passage from this world. Unfortunately for him, neither of those is on the table.
Thatcher kneels at my feet, warm cheek against my thigh, soothing me as I confront two men who have been trying to take me down for longer than I’ve been aware of their existence.
The catharsis I felt finding out that my father knew every terrible secret I held and loved me anyway has congealed into a cold, fixed hatred that needs to be purged from my soul once and for all.
It isn’t lost on me that my closure regarding my parents’ unconditional love is much the same thing Thatcher’s been seeking his entire life.
Although I don’t anticipate the same bittersweet ending for him as the one I’ve received, it’ll be my goal to love him enough for two parents as long as I draw breath.
Perhaps he’ll find peace calling me “Mommy” one day, although he’s already been rebuffed from trying to call Misha “Daddy.”
“You can fuck yourself, you whore.” Oleg spits as far as he can, which isn’t very, and falls victim to a coughing fit from the blood draining from his split tongue into his lungs.
“I think that’s enough out of that one, moya sila.
” On my command, Misha grabs the cautery knife, which is one of my favorite toys, and ensures that Oleg Zadorov will never insult me again.
He passes out from the pain, and I shrug when Misha wordlessly asks if he wants me to revive him.
He can rest for a bit. I really don’t care.
Thatcher’s hair is soft beneath my fingers, and he relaxes even further into me as I scratch a path to the nape of his neck. He could be asleep, and I hate to leave him, but I’ve grown weary. It’s time to end this chapter.
“Solnyshko,” I whisper, scratching a bit harder to try to get his attention. “I need to get up, my handsome boy.”
With a grumble, he does as he’s told, taking my chair as I stand. He doesn’t have to stay for any of this; he didn’t have to be here at all. But my solnyshko made it clear that he had no plans to leave my side, and if I wanted him here, there’s nowhere he’d rather be.
With Oleg unconscious, Zakhar is the unfortunate recipient of my full attention.
He can’t spit on me, thanks to the mask in place over all but his eyes, and the defiant loathing there is delicious.
Pulling a simple wooden chair in front of him, I turn it around and sit backward, resting my chin on my hands and eyeing my prize.
“You’ve been very bad, Zakhar.”
His eyes flash as I chuckle.
“You hate that, don’t you? You think you should be Mr. Zadorov, or father-in-law, or sir, or Pakhan.
” I can’t help but spit the last title, the one that he came so close to taking from me.
“Unfortunately for you, I won. You’re nothing, mere minutes left to even exist as Zakhar before I erase you and your name from everywhere I find it.
Yet you still sit here hating me. Even though I bested you. ”
Misha’s puppy dog eyes finally get to me, and I wait while he impales Zakhar’s feet into the floor with six-inch spikes through each toenail.
He talked so much shit for weeks about me being the one who needed to let off steam.
If he’s this desperate to satiate his blood lust, maybe he’s the one who needs a plaything. As a matter of fact…
“Mmrmph!”
Oleg interrupts my train of thought, finally waking from the shock of having his tongue hacked off. He can’t speak anymore, but he certainly can wail and annoy the fuck out of me. One of the benefits of Zakhar’s mask is that he can’t make a peep.
“Moya sila, I think I’m done with that one if you are.”
The shot is immediate, Misha’s patience with whiners as thin as my own. Zakhar barely reacts, likely due to both a lack of paternal sentiment toward Oleg and a rapidly waning grip on reality.
“As I was saying. You hate me because you think you deserve what I have, just because you’re a man. For years, you’ve plotted against me, stabbing my father in the back in the process and—”
For the first time, a word catches in my throat, but I push through.
I refuse to allow this scum to have the pleasure, even at the end of his life, of knowing just how much he affected me.
Just how hellish it was to live with the thought that my father had lied to me and betrayed me.
Countless tears, years of a constant pit in my stomach at the thought that not a single person aside from Misha had ever loved me. Only a beat passes, and I continue.
“And if your stupid little schemes, the deal with the syndicate, all that bullshit you were sewing in Russia…if all of it had worked, maybe you would deserve the title I hold. As it is, I keep my promises. You’ll be nothing. Nobody will remember your name or think of you at all.”
This reminder finally seems to sink in, and the man who tried to take everything from me senses his pending death.
“While you’re…well, let’s not say resting in peace, hmm?
Perhaps resting in pieces…I’ll be here. Enjoying every day with people who are actually loyal to me, and running this Bratva the way my father taught me.
I’ll be the Pakhan for long enough to keep an ear to the ground, and if I hear one fucking hint of anyone associated with you stirring up trouble, they’ll be with you in hell in a heartbeat.
I hope you told everyone never to come near me if you failed.
I won’t be waiting for them, because I have better things to do, but I’ll certainly be ready. ”
The confusion is clear in the last pitiful whimpers of the asshole whose name will never be spoken again as Misha and I move back into the anteroom to grab Thatcher and leave. Thatcher, who’s…asleep?
“He, uh…passed out when I drove the first nail in, I think. After the church, I thought he might be desensitized enough, but—”
“My poor solnyshko,” I murmur, pushing the hair out of his eyes.
He’s not ready for all this life entails, even though I know he’s going to fight like hell to stay with me as I finish the cleanup in Russia.
The scheme that’s been lurking in the back of my mind moves to the forefront, and for the first time, I can see a solution that will benefit all parties.
Even if they don’t see it that way initially.
Another whimper from behind us as Misha hoists my sleeping love into his arms finally pushes me over the edge, and my bullet finishes the job before I have time to think.
“Moya tsaritsa, I thought you had a whole thing planned? Just enough calories not to starve, healing him with nurses who were going to pretend to plot with him just to betray him?”
Misha’s right, I did have an elaborate plan to extract every molecule of pain before offering the sweet release of death. As we head toward the house, all I can do is shrug.
“I hate whiners,” I explain, and both of us laugh, causing Thatcher to stir before settling again. “And, moya sila, I didn’t feel like dwelling in that room with a dead man any more than I had to. There’s too much to do, to waste time like that.”
Finally, we reach the doors to my room, and Misha puts Thatcher down on the bed without another peep.
“So, a long to-do list, huh?”
“Well, you said it yourself. I have three favorite pastimes. One I think I’ve had my fill of for a while.”
Thatcher groans and makes grabby hands, so I put a pillow in his arms until I can join him. He rolls over, content for now, and Misha’s eyes are full of mirth but also understanding.
“The other two…I think I’m really just getting started.”