THIRTY-NINE
Nastasya
“ R eady or not. Here I come!”
Ignazio’s words filter through to where I slide beneath Papa’s bed. I stall my movements, keening my ears to see if the enemy moves toward me or calls my bluff. Either way, I need to prepare myself. I run my eye over the cache of weapons strapped to the underside of the bed frame and pick my load out. His favorite Desert Eagle.
Ignazio can come after me all he likes, but he won’t find me cowered in a corner.
My papa taught me how to fight. Taught me how to stand up for myself, although he believed I would never need to, being a woman in a male-dominated organization. Taught me how to avoid becoming another casualty of indifferent enemies—my mother’s fate. She never stood a chance when those attackers ambushed her car. Never had a hope of saving herself when the patriarchy that keeps me from the table kept her ignorant of what it takes to fend off an armed and determined assailant.
That won’t be me. This isn’t my story, my legacy. Kuznetsov women aren’t fated to be viewed as weak and easy targets. Nope. If you want change, be the change. My father might believe that emotion is what will compromise my role at the head of the brotherhood, but my compassion and love are the very things that’ll be the reason I win.
You can’t expect to perform your best if you don’t care about the outcome.
I care about our hired men down there, our extended family. I care about the man I’m yet to start a new life with. And I care about me.
That love alone makes me indestructible.
“He’s inside the wall, Stasya!” Dmitry’s rattled cry from the sitting room shakes me into action, my hands a blur as I check and load each weapon.
Thundering footsteps sound through the halls, scrambling my brain as I slide out from beneath the bed. If Ignazio follows my path through the walls, then who the fuck runs through the house? I wedge a second clip in the waist of my pants and clutch the gun in my grasp, sidling up alongside the wall while I wait for the assailant to enter the room. They won’t expect me here, behind the door. I angle myself toward the center of the room, where I’m most likely to shoot.
The door flies open, the footsteps grinding to a stop on the other side of the panel as panted breaths echo in my ear.
They’re close. Too close. I could reach out and curl my hand around the timber to touch them. I toy with the idea of striding forward and catching them off guard, but the person moves again to enter the room. The raven hair that I expected is the first thing I see. Second, are the broad shoulders of a De Santis man. The only thing that stops me from pulling the trigger is that for this to be Ignazio, they’d need gray peppering that black.
My heart stutters and restarts. Benito.
He turns as though hearing my internal cry, his sharp eyes landing on where I stand, shaking beside my papa’s door, armed to the teeth with a weapon I’ve barely used more than twice in my life.
An exhale rushes from his nose, gaze fixed on mine as he paces toward me and takes my face in his hands. Kisses, hot and urgent, pepper my lips, my nose, and my forehead. You’re okay, they say. You’re safe.
He takes a step back, vicious with his taut black shirt pulled open at the neck, sleeves rolled onto corded forearms. Benito readjusts the pistol in his right hand and slides a blade into his left. His brow an angry slash over dark eyes, the seasoned hitman takes a step backward and turns toward where the secret corridor through the walls opens into Papa’s room.
“He won’t fit all the way through,” I whisper. “I struggled. He’s too big.”
As though to confirm my point, Ignazio’s angered words echo from downstairs. “How long do you think you can hide?”
I glance toward Benito to find him watching me. His Adam’s apple bobs slowly. He doesn’t know this house as well as I do, nor how to get out without possibly passing his uncle. The conflict is clear as day in his vibrant gaze. What do we do? The connection breaks when he spins away, striding to each window, in turn, to check what lies beyond. None of them open—sealed shut to ease Papa’s paranoid mind.
“This one.” I lead him toward the attached bathroom and a narrow, frosted window. The sole opening leads into an alcove in the design of the house, our only way to leave without backtracking through the house.
Benito waits behind me, his back to mine, while I crack the catch and thrust both hands against the frame to break it past the safety stopper. I force the tall window open as far as the short hinges allow; it isn’t enough.
“I don’t know if you’ll fit.” Cursed threats echo down the hall to where we’ve effectively cornered ourselves.
Benito eyes the narrow gap and then gestures for me to go through with the barrel of his gun. His lips firm, gaze hard, he waits for me to obey.
I reach out and give the frame another shove. It doesn’t budge. “No.” I turn to find him with his eyes closed, head tipped to the ceiling with exasperation. “I ran once before and left you to face the consequences alone. I won’t do it again.” I don’t care how much he wants to play the hero; it isn’t fair that I leave him to do this alone.
The pain highlighting his gaze sucks the air from the room when he slowly lowers his eyes back to mine. I swallow hard, solidifying the decision in my mind while Benito gently turns and sets his blade on the vanity to his right. He lifts his free hand to my face, warm fingertips trembling as they trace my jawline. Please. The silent plea lies etched in the worry lines around his eyes, the subtle downward tilt of his lips.
I understand why he wants me to go, but I also know he decides out of fear. Fear for me, for what he could lose, for what might happen.
I feel the same way about leaving him alone with Ignazio. “I want to stay.” He swallows hard, breath a heavy rush from his nose when I step against him and set my hand on his chest. “With you.” His heart is an urgent wing, beating hard and fast with its need to get us out of this. “We do this together.”
The unmistakable sound of Ignazio heading toward us echoes from beyond the bathroom doorway.
Precious seconds pass, the footsteps growing louder, yet Benito feels the urgent need to withdraw his broken phone and type a quick plea.
I can’t promise you’ll be safe if you do.
He glances up, nostrils flaring when he holds my eye, and then adds,
Please go.
“I won’t.” I let my hand slide from his firm pec, allowing my fingertips to graze his stomach on their way past.
He shudders a breath, tipping his chin to the sky and moving his lips in what appears to be a silent prayer.
“Who wants to come say hello first?” Ignazio taunts, distressingly close.
My throat tightens, my chest taut as my heart struggles to beat double-time in what feels to be an inadequate space. Fingers secure on the grip of Papa’s gun, I pull a deep breath and allow the slow exhale to bring me a sliver of calm. Men like Ignazio are so blinded by what they believe they deserve that they often overlook what they’ve lost in their narrow-minded pursuit. He’s pushed away his family, turned blood relatives into enemies, and made himself the outcast of the De Santis dynasty. He’s a one-man show, operating on pure mania.
Here I stand, with love on my side and the devotion that it provides, forming a bond between Benito and me. We’re a team with a greater chance at taking down Ignazio together than we would taking him on alone. The lone wolf may appear fearsome, but the reality of nature is that a wolf outcast from its pack rarely survives for long.
There are just some things you can’t do on your own. Shouldn’t do. Overthrowing a strong hierarchy, such as the one that rules our mafia brethren, is one of those things.
I glance into the crystal gaze that holds both fear and love and nod. Let’s do this.
Benito turns away, his broad shoulders enveloping my line of sight as he moves to the door and pauses. He rolls his head to the left and then the right; the resulting crack sounds like a gunshot in our small space.
Two steps forward, and he enters his uncle’s domain.
I stay close to his back, my weapon raised and trained on my target as both Dmitry and Papa taught me.
Ignazio rakes his gaze over the pair of us and chuckles. “Well, isn’t this cute?” He settles his disgusted snarl on his nephew. “You brought a bargaining chip to the table.”
Benito shakes his head, arms stiff at his sides. I catch the glint of steel and realize he snuck the blade back against his palm without me knowing. Sneaky, sneaky.
“Let me have her, and this whole thing will go much smoother.” Ignazio folds his arms, gun in his grasp beneath the opposite bicep. “I promise I won’t hurt her.” He licks his lips, eyeing me like I’m some tasty treat he’s been promised after the main course. “Yet.”
“You won’t lay a fucking hand on me.” I take a step forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Benito. “I’m sure that, by now, Gennaro knows exactly what you’ve been up to.”
“Like that makes a lick of difference.” The taller man strolls casually past us to pick up a picture of my parents. “It’s not him I need the reaction from.”
“What do you want out of my father?” I exchange a glance with Benito; he looks equally as confused.
“Leverage.” Ignazio’s narrowed gaze slips back to me as he carelessly lets the picture frame collapse on the hard surface behind him. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Kind of is when it’s me you talk about using as the hook for your bait.”
“I could use you for a lot more.” He flashes a lop-sided grin, briefly capturing the edge of his bottom lip between his teeth.
It’s a sexy smirk that all De Santis men pull off effortlessly. I hate myself for thinking so.
It seems Benito feels just as angered by the suggestion, striding forward to shunt the end of his gun against his uncle’s chest—straight over his heart.
“Like you’d be that reckless.” Ignazio lifts a hand, gently sliding the barrel free of his shirt. “You’re too whipped. A family man, corrupted by the very organization that keeps fucking your life over.” He stares hard into Benito’s eyes. “Do you ever ask yourself if the reward is worth the sacrifice? Because I do, and I can tell you the answer is always no.” He steps free of his nephew’s physical threat to stride over to where I stand.
I steady both hands on the gun, still pointing at his classically handsome face. “Not one more step.”
A low chuckle. The purposeful placement of a boot on timber.
“Unlike Benito,” I warn. “I have no commitment to your family rules. So, in case you wonder, yes. I would shoot you.”
“So sassy.” The fucker smirks. “And so similar to me.”
I get enough time to drag my brow into a frown before the goddamn snake spins at the waist, turning his torso back toward Benito and discharging a single shot.
Time slows painfully. Blood pumps so thick in my ears it hurts.
In the perfect scenario, I would have said that I shot the asshole where he stood. Pressed my finger on the trigger and delivered swift vengeance. But the issue with the love that unites us is that it also makes us prioritize things very differently.
I should embed a round into Ignazio’s neck, open and bared for me to strike.
I should also place one in his thigh and watch him bleed out slowly while he’s unable to leave the scene.
I could bide my time and wait for him to face me again so that I can revel in the shock in his eyes when I place a bullet firmly between them.
But I don’t.
Love makes us foolish. And it’s love that makes me drop the weapon to the floor and slide on my knees across the polished floorboards to where Benito cradles his injured pistol arm.
“Why?” I scream, turning my ire on the man who stands over us both, watching with morbid curiosity.
“Didn’t need him changing his mind,” Ignazio says. He follows the statement with a short grunt, his brow pinching before he looks down to where the knife from Benito’s hand now sticks out at an awkward angle from his side.
My love is down, not out.
If Ignazio is lucky, the blade hit his stomach. If he’s not, then he won’t last long with steel through his liver.
“You fucking little shit.” Anger spikes his gaze, pupils a dark storm.
Benito laughs.
I find comfort in knowing he can still form a smile and find humor in the situation. My focus slides from panic-induced survival to calculated response. Gaze sweeping the floor, I locate where Benito’s gun dropped and run the math in my head: is it easier to lean over him and grab that one or twist to retrieve mine from a little further away? Which is less likely to draw attention?
I choose Benito’s pistol on the floorboards.
Ignazio still studies the knife in his side when I make my move. I lean forward, press a kiss to Benito’s lips, and then dive for the gun, spreading myself out lengthwise for maximum effort. My fingertips graze the handle, grasp scrabbling to get the fucking thing in my hand with enough control to pull the trigger and shoot an accurate line. I wrap my hand around the gun and place my free hand on the cold floor to push myself up and around when Benito’s palm slaps hard against my waist. I wince at the ache—grimace at the shock of his brutal hold on me—but soon realize why.
He pulls me to safety.
Fingers bruising my side, he rolls me toward him, facing out toward Ignazio, and then shoves his injured arm beneath my lower side. I register the madness in his uncle’s eye and fumble with the weapon in my hand, but the grip slides from my fingers, the pistol clattering to the floor. A growl emanates from behind me as Benito hoists me up and toward his left, my lover rising on his knees to curl his body around me as he does.
I hit the floor with a deafening ring in my ears, but it’s not the hardwood that creates the echo.
It’s the shot that Benito takes to his back.
The grunt of his breath leaving his lungs echoes in my ears long after the shadow of pain has left Benito’s eyes. Dusky gray-blue meets my gaze, and he slides his eyes lazily to the right, gesturing toward the bathroom.
Toward escape.
I move in the opposite direction instead, the fire of injustice licking at old wounds and coaxing me to make this right. I dive again for the gun. A boot crashes down on my wrist, my fingers less than an inch from victory.
Ignazio bends double to retrieve Benito’s gun, his foot still pinning my hand. “I’ll have this.” The clip hits the floor beside me before the asshole tosses the useless weapon aside.
I use my periphery to check on Benito, nausea swimming violently in my stomach when I find him bent double in a prayer position, arms braced beneath him to keep his head off the floor. Crimson pools in the space between his knees and elbows.
Ignazio grabs me roughly around the bicep to wrench me to my feet. I stare at the one fucking thing I never considered: Ivan.
He leans against the doorframe and swings his good arm. A weapon hits the floor and slides toward our feet.
I use the split-second it takes for Ignazio to register the noise—his back to the door—and squat low to snare the gun.
This time, I don’t hesitate.
“You wouldn’t,” he chuckles as I point the business end of the weapon at him.
“I would.” I flick off the safety. “And you know why?” Discharge the shot. “Because my name isn’t De Santis.”