THIRTY-EIGHT
Benito
F ucking knew I shouldn’t have left her alone. I thought she’d be okay. I figured all my bride-to-be needed was a little time and space to sort through things at her own pace, and the best thing I could do was grant her that little reprieve while I sorted the snake amongst our grass.
Now, here I am, wondering what sort of husband I’ll make if this is how I fail to protect her.
I never thought he’d be this bold.
My hands shake on the wheel, handgun still tucked beneath the palm of my right hand. My gaze flicks to the rearview mirror—the road empty. I’ve got no idea how far behind me the others are. I tore out of the house and ripped down the driveway before my father had a chance to order a car brought around.
I jerk the wheel and slam on the brakes, skidding to a stop before the Kuznetsov’s gate. The iron doesn’t slide out of my way, and no face is visible in the security booth. A quick tryst out of the car finds the reason for the delay: the fucker lies on the floor of the guard post with a goddamn bullet through his head . Motherfucker never stood a chance. I slam my palm on the button that allows me access and tear back to the car. The Defender’s tires kick up stones, engine roaring as I huss the vehicle to a stop outside the house, not concerned with the noise I create.
He’ll know I’m here.
I could wager that the fucker expects me to come.
I’m frustrated, done with this bullshit, done with the mess that my life creates.
Or is it the mess that our love creates?
This bullshit only gets worse when Stas and I are together. Not that it changes how I feel about her one goddam bit. I’d stride up the steps of the enemy’s home as I do right at this minute a thousand times over if it meant I got one more day with her. She’s the only one who’s ever taken me as I am, flaws and all, and never asked me to change. If that isn’t reason enough to risk my life to save hers, I don’t know what is.
The heavy oak door sits ajar, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I edge myself against it to use it as a visual shield and nudge the gap wider with the business end of my gun. Feet. I find feet on the foyer floor, and they don’t look like the ones I fucking wish them to be. Checking all the sightlines, I make my way inside and edge across to where Ivan lies propped up against the paneled wall. He struggles to breathe, blood pooling on his pale gray button-down against his left side. It’s hard to pick the emotions on this guy’s face—the years haven’t been kind—but I could almost say the widening of his eyes passes for relief when I edge into view.
The killer-for-hire lifts a finger to his lips, eyes darting to his left.
I’ve seen the carnage this man creates. Bore witness to the death left in his wake when Ivan was paid the right price to clear a room. The fact that he sits here now, gunshot wound seeping the last vestiges of life from him, says a lot. For a man who’s always prepared, he sure looks as though he was caught off guard.
A question for a later date. I have a more pressing issue creating chaos in the room next door.
“Only him,” he whispers, words rattling in his lungs. “Only Dmitry with Miss Stasya.”
I pat his cheek, thanking the fucker for all that he’s done, and then turn my attention toward where the furniture sits haphazardly beyond the open doorway. A scrape sounds, followed by footsteps that have me sliding across the polished tiles on my ass to get behind the safety of the wall. Beyond the door to my left, the footsteps recede, followed by another crash of something wooden hitting the ground.
“Staying quiet won’t help you.”
The bolt of rage that rises at the sound of my uncle’s voice takes me by surprise. Violent and direct, it mainlines all the repressed emotions from the dark recesses of my mind directly to my heart, kickstarting the organ into painful overdrive. Years, I’ve wished for a reason to make this motherfucker pay—now I have it.
Now, I have my father’s blessing.
I feel as though I could rip Ignazio’s head from his body with my bare hands.
“I know how Arseni modified the house, you ignorant cunt.” Who does he talk to? Is it Dmitry or Stas? “Where is she, you soviet fuck?”
Dmitry. Relief washes over the pulsating anger; it’s not Nastasya. I listen for Ignazio’s movements, confirming where he is inside the room before pulling my silenced phone from my pocket and sending a quick message to Dion.
He’s alone. Armed. Angry.
Known for his heartless revenge and cold intent, it was often wondered if Arseni had lost his mind when his wife was taken too soon. But seeing the graying man in our home with clear regret painting his pinched features, I knew the rumors couldn’t be true. Not when our greatest adversary willingly spilled his secrets, knowing he’d need help to clean the mess he’d created.
It was guilt that finally broke the man.
Guilt that he’d failed his daughter. Taken one gamble too many and crossed a player who held none of the morals the head of the Bratva so obviously still did.
He wagered what remained of his family against my uncle, Ignazio, and lost.
Arseni never stood a chance. He knew that the minute my uncle took Irina’s life. Ignazio doesn’t give a fuck about family, blood. Such apathy means he would happily gamble everything to win. And so, here we sit. Watching my uncle reach across the craps table called life with both arms, believing he’s won.
“Is it really that much fun?” Ignazio roars. “Watching me tear your fucking castle apart to find the fucking princess? Stop being the hero, Dmitry.” His tone softens. “Do something for yourself, for once.”
The strained retort of Arseni’s most loyal soldier etches itself in my bones. “I am.” He coughs, drawing a loud breath before adding, “I protect what I love.”
“Fool.” Another crash, smaller things cascading onto the floor.
I edge toward the doorway.
“I know she was in here. I’ll find where she went, even if you refuse to tell me.”
I gain enough of a view of the room to know that Dmitry sits on the back side of the wall that I creep along. He’s out of sight, away from where I can tell the guy I’m here. Fuck. Fingers flexing on the grip of my gun, I take a deep breath and then rise to my feet.
The time to dive in headfirst has arrived. I could creep along that floor for an age and wait for my father and Dion to arrive. I could stall for a thousand different reasons until Arseni returned, but each second that I spend being a pussy for fear of the unknown is another second Stas slips further away.
My pride blooms when I catch sight of Ivan, in my periphery, raising his bloodied hand to the side of his head. The motherfucking revered Bratva killer salutes me, the mongrel off-cast of his rival’s empire. Then again, knowing that fucker, he could do it out of pure sarcasm—saluting a love-sick fool about to step foot toward his imminent death.
You’ve got to at least try, right?
Left foot sideways, right swinging around, I turn into the doorway and immediately locate my fucked-up relative. Ignazio stands with his hands full of paperbacks, tearing the titles from a bookcase that covers half of the rear wall.
“Well, look who decided to join the party.” He drops the book in his right hand and reaches for his weapon.
The double movement means I’m quicker. I raise my pistol and line it with his smug fucking face, taking further steps into the room. A slash of black to my left confirms where Dmitry slumps against the end of a sofa. He’s in bad shape, covered in as much blood as my crazed uncle.
The question is, who wears their own, and who wears the other’s?
There’s no doubt a fair fight went down in this room. One look at the broken and strewn décor, followed by a cursory glance at the posture of the man before me, has me wondering how the fuck Ignazio still stands. It seems the old bastard was in better form than I gave him credit.
“Who are you here for?” my elder asks, steel-blue eyes narrowed on where I stand. “Where is your loyalty, Benito?”
I lift my eyebrows and nod toward him. Where’s yours?
“No golden cunt is worth this much,” he says with a derisive laugh. “Help me find the girl, and I’ll make you into more of a man than your father ever will.”
My lips twitch up on one side. That’s his weakness, my esteemed uncle. He assumes everyone is as power-hungry as he is. Wrong. I don’t want the fame, the notoriety, or the money. I want what makes me feel good, and she’s currently somewhere in this maze of a goddamn house hiding from the devil I should have killed years ago.
“You waste your breath,” Dmitry says with a hint of humor. “Benito is ten times the man you are, Ignazio. He can’t be bribed with all things shiny.”
I nod in agreeance.
Uncle Naz sighs, eyes rolling in his head as he gives me his back and returns to the bookcase. “Shoot me, then. But I’m here to finish what I started far too long ago.” He tears another handful of titles from the shelves.
“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” Dmitry asks. “You’re bitter and jaded because you fucked up, and now you’ve had to wait for years to find out that nothing you built would ever replace what you lost.” He laughs at my fuming relative. “Fate has a plan for all of us, Ignazio. What you do doesn’t matter; you cannot control God.”
“There is no God!” Naz hollers, his voice echoing off the walls.
I ready my blade in my left hand. I know crazy when I see it, and the thing with crazy is that it’s unpredictable. I should know.
“Every fucking Sunday, there we are in the pews singing His graces.” More books to the floor. “And for what? He doesn’t answer my prayers. Doesn’t care for my desires.”
“Because they’re corrupt. Fed to you by the devil,” Dmitry explains. “Give it up. You won’t have what you want.”
“I fucking will.” Naz stiffens, gaze fixated on a shelf about waist height.
Dmitry shifts where he sits, groaning with his injuries.
My blood chills.
“Told you that I’d find it.” Uncle Naz grins, head turning slowly to read our reactions. “I know where you are, Nastasya!” He tips his head back and hollers through the house. “Ready or not, here I come.”