53. Pasha
53
I already know I’m going to murder someone.
Then I find Lev in the grass, bleeding out from a gunshot wound, and I’m more sure than ever.
The car doesn’t even come to a full stop before I’m barreling out of it, closing the distance between me and one of my best men. He’s been updating me on Daphne’s location and activity, so when he suddenly went silent, I assumed he went in to save her.
This?
This is far worse.
“Lev!” I carefully roll him over and not-as-carefully smack the side of his face. “Lev, man, wake up. For the love of God, wake up!”
He groans.
Thank God.
“Breh…” He coughs, wheezes, and tries to grab at my coat. “Brennan. Fucking… Brennan.”
I feel my blood run cold. “He’s here? Brennan’s here?”
“He… he shot me,” Lev wheezes again as he tries to nod. “He fucking shot… Lemme… lemme…”
“I’m going to handle it. And we’re going to get you help, okay?”
“She’s… she’s in there. Daphne…”
The rage inside me boils. My hands shake with the need to slam them into something. Someone. Brennan.
A pair of my other men rush over to help load Lev into their SUV. More and more Bratva vehicles are peeling into the driveway of the Hamish manor, with vors and guards and foot soldiers alike surrounding the building and sweeping the grounds.
Arlo storms across the dead lawn, gun drawn and jaw set. “What’s the plan?”
I straighten and unholster my own weapon. “Get Daphne out. She’s priority. Kill whoever you have to.”
He nods. “Of course.” As I start making my way to the decrepit house, he falls in stride.
I’m still not in the headspace to embrace him as my father. But I can appreciate that, even now, in the face of everything, he’s not questioning me or leaving my side.
It makes me wonder if this is what having a good father is like.
Voices are rising from inside the main entrance of the manor. I force myself to resist barreling in at the sound of Daphne’s voice, instead glancing around to make sure everyone is in position.
Sofi darts around back. Four of her men follow her, guns and knives drawn.
Lev is loaded into the SUV and they roll out, silently until they’re far enough from the house to gun it to the hospital.
I need to time this just right. I can’t see through the stupid frosted glass if Brennan has a gun to Daphne’s head.
“Or…” I hear him loudly scoff. “I kill your parents. Fuck that sweet body of yours. Then kill you right when he gets here so I can kill him while he’s too distracted mourning your dead, defiled corpse. Yeah. I like that plan better.”
The only reason why I don’t kick the door down right here and now is because Arlo holds out his arm and gives me a cold, knowing look.
Then he knocks.
Brennan’s voice dies down. No one else seems to speak.
Footsteps approach the door. It opens, and Brennan stares at us in dumbfounded shock.
My first thought is murder. My second and third thoughts are, too.
But then I’m distracted. Motion, behind him. A familiar blur of gleaming auburn hair.
My heart stops.
Then Daphne dives for his legs. Not his gun. It’s a smooth, swift move that catches Brennan by surprise and literally sweeps him off his feet.
My fucking queen.
Arlo barrels into the room without a word, aiming his gun at the Hamishes. Doors and windows burst open all throughout the house as my Bratva storms inside and begins the search for traps, guards, anything that could blow us off the map without warning.
Daphne rolls out of the way just as Brennan collapses to the floor. I want to reach for her, to pull her to me and take her away from here, but this dumb motherfucker tries to grab her ankles.
“You stupid mudak.”
The last thread on my self-control snaps.
I don’t even need my gun. He sure as shit doesn’t need his, which I make abundantly clear by smashing his wrist against the marble tile with one hand and breaking his fingers open with the other.
Brennan screams.
It only fuels my bloodlust.
I don’t have anything to say to him, so I don’t. I just pin him down and beat the ever-living shit out of him. I don’t want to recognize his face by the time I’m done. Hell, by the time I’m finished, dental records won’t be enough. He’ll be a smear on the tile at best.
I just beat.
And beat.
And beat him into a fucking pulp.
He’s limp and purple when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I almost rip it away, but something stops me.
“Pasha.” I hear her voice through the blood-red haze. “My love. He’s done.”
He’s definitely not moving, that’s for fucking sure.
Daphne gives me the space to draw air into my lungs and collect the more humane part of myself. She also offers me my gun.
I look at her fingers wrapped around the grip.
I don’t know when she truly became Bratva. But I can’t deny she’s one of us now.
And I am so fucking proud of that.
Of her.
I take my gun and don’t even think about what’s next. I just point and shoot without even looking. One tiny exhale ends it. Scott Brennan is now, officially, dead and done.
I rise off his corpse and wipe my bloodied hands on my coat. “Goddamn it, Brennan. It didn’t have to go this way.”
“Yes, it did.” Daphne stares down at him, her voice calm but cold. “He was a sick man. Not even a man, really. This… this needed to happen.”
“As does this.”
I freeze. So does she. Neither one of us moves as Stewart steps closer to her, his gun poised at her head.
I manage to spare a stunned glance at Arlo. Didn’t he have the Hamishes on lock?
Judging by the look on his face, he did.
Stewart is just crazy enough to pull this shit out of thin air.
“I’m getting out of here,” he snarls. “I don’t care what happens to them. But I’m getting out of here, alive. You hear me?”
Again, I glance at Arlo. He puts his index finger in place over the trigger.
But then Stewart steps behind Daphne and uses her as his human shield. “Nuh-uh. You’re not gonna pull some Bratva mob shit on me, Chekhov. Not if you want her alive.”
Ophelia squeaks from whatever corner she’s curled herself into. She doesn’t even try to plead with her husband to spare their daughter.
Fucking pathetic.
Arlo mutters something to me in Russian. I look at Daphne, meeting her fearful gaze with my own steadfast confidence.
Trust me, moya plamya.
She closes her eyes.
I breathe.
And then Stewart Hamish drops behind her, a bullet hole sprouting in the middle of his forehead.
Ophelia screams. Sofiya swoops in on her and snatches her up, dragging the woman out the back way to deal with outside.
I scoop Daphne into my arms without a second thought. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She’s shaking from head to toe. “I’m fine. I’m fine. No one… no one did anything.”
Her voice cracks. Tears well in her eyes. No one did anything, so she says. But they sure as hell tried to.
I cradle her face in my hand and make her look up at me. “Why? Seriously, Daphne, why? Do you know how fucking terrified I’ve been? And why the hell didn’t you use your panic button?”
Her bottom lip trembles. I touch my thumb to it. I don’t want to scare her, but goddamn, I’m scared myself.
I’ve never known true fear until I realized how close I was to losing her. Forever.
She reaches up and touches my hand with hers, which shows me the deep red marks on her wrist, perfect imprints of the bracelet that used to be there.
Whoever ripped it off her is already dead. Still, I want to bring him back and kill him all over again just for marking my wife like this. For daring.
I take her hand and kiss the skin. “We’ll fix it. We’ll fix everything.”
Then I drag her into my embrace and I don’t let go for a long, long time.
Eventually, I hear Arlo clear his throat. There are more loose ends to be taken care of, so with a sigh, I relinquish my grip on Daphne, though I keep her hand in mine. Together, we follow Arlo outside.
Under an old oak tree on the bedraggled expanse of the back lawn, Ophelia struggles against Sofi’s iron-fisted hold on her arms. She’s on her knees, dress dirtied, her face a smeared mess of makeup and tears.
She’s lucky we didn’t paint her with her husband’s blood.
And as I start to advance on her to perform the inevitable, she’s even luckier her daughter holds up a hand.
“This is my fight. Not yours,” she says. “Let me handle it.”
With a quiet sigh, I relent.
Sofiya throws the woman down at Daphne’s feet. “She tried to make a run for it once we got her out here. I told her she doesn’t get to abandon her daughters. Again.”
My wife crouches in front of her former mother, her brows knit with anger and sadness. “I gave you chance, after chance, after chance, to make things right. And what did you do instead? You let him hurt me. You, Mother, let your husband hurt your child.”
Ophelia bursts into tears.
“Why? Because I ‘embarrassed’ you? Because I didn’t clap and dance like a toy monkey for your amusement? You’re sick, Ophelia. You need professional help.”
“I did this for you!” The woman screeches and sobs and claws at the dry dirt. “I did everything for you! Your father, he—he—he was a monster! You don’t know what I put up with for you! You and your ungrateful little sister!”
Daphne straightens. She turns to me, her eyes asking me for permission to do what needs to be done. And even though I don’t know what she has in mind, I trust her.
So I nod.
“I’m going to do you a favor.” Daphne gives Sofi a nod to pluck the unhinged woman up from the dirt. “Because after all is said and done, you’re still… Well, you still birthed me. At one point, a long time ago, you were my mother.”
The woman continues to struggle, her breath hitching, her lips trembling.
“You will go away for a very, very long time. Somewhere far away from me and my family. My children, Melanie’s children—they will never know you. You will never know them. Anyhow, you will be too focused on your mental health and therapy at whatever institute we find for you, so that should help heal the sting.”
Sofi’s brows lift and she looks to me. I shrug.
I’m pretty sure there’s a mental institute somewhere in Siberia.
Daphne looks like she wants to say something more, but she leaves it at that. It’s probably for the best. She turns to me and walks straight into my arms, burying her face in my chest as I hold her so close and tight, she won’t be able to pry from my embrace for a week.
Or ever, if I have any say about it.
Sofi pulls up Ophelia by the hair and drags the feral woman into the nearest SUV. Her cries for Daphne go ignored. I stroke my wife’s hair to cover her ears just so she doesn’t have to endure the sound any more than necessary.
“I want to say I’m sorry,” Daphne mutters once Ophelia is gone and silence finally settles over us. “But I’m not.”
I tip her chin up so she sees my face. So she can see, in my eyes, that I understand.
I hate it. But I do understand.
“I love you, Pasha. I always have. I always will.” She sucks in a deep breath and lets it out, her nerves trembling with it. “I couldn’t let them continue.”
“I know.” I press a warm kiss to her lips. “I’m still pretty fucking pissed, but I know. I love you, too.”
She smiles. She looks tired, so I squeeze her closer to me.
“Let’s go home.”