Mishca stood outside the closed door, not knowing what to feel, how to act, or even what to do. On the other side was his twin, one that he hadn’t known existed until twenty minutes prior. In that short span of time, everything he had thought he knew about his mother felt like a lie…but in a way, it also made sense.
When she was alive, and during those times when she thought he wasn’t listening, he remembered often hearing her talking to herself about the sacrifices she had made, but he had never for a second thought that a baby had been that sacrifice.
And Mishca didn’t even know his name.
Jetmir Besnik was standing before him, discussing business with Mikhail as though he hadn’t just spent days torturing someone he had assumed to be a captain in the Volkov Bratva. It sure as hell didn’t sit well with Mishca, and if he were in charge, Mishca would have happily killed them all for the discretion. It was for that reason Mikhail headed this impromptu meeting. He was nothing if not a businessman. He didn’t think about the fact that their plan was to torture Mishca, only what he would gain from it.
“Are we in accord?” Mishca heard as he tuned back into the conversation.
Whatever the Albanians had offered him, it would never be enough for Mishca.
Jetmir stuck out his hand. Mikhail shook it, as well as the hands of a few others that Jetmir had brought with him.
“Mishca?”
He kept his face blank, but Mishca was burning with anger on the inside when Mikhail called his name. Mishca knew what the look Mikhail was giving him meant. As was their way, Mishca was required to shake with them as well, no matter how much it grated on him.
But he wasn’t in any position to argue.
Grudgingly, Mishca accepted Jetmir’s hand, meeting the man’s eyes. Whether Mikhail saw it, or just plain ignored it, Mishca could easily read Jetmir’s expression. He thought he had won this, and in a way, he had.
When they were all gone, some time later, Mishca turned back to the room, surprised to find the door being snatched open, his twin limping out of the room, looking broken.
“You’re just going to let them leave?” He asked, the words sounding strained since half his face was still swollen.
“It is of none of your concern,” Mishca said, too angry to discuss it any further.
“But they tortured me, and Sarah.”
Tears were welling in his eyes, the sight of them making Mishca frown. It was too much like seeing himself cry, and that was something he never did, not since his mother died.
“Yes, she’s dead. You should move on from it, learn from it. There’s nothing that can be done about it now.”
He looked like Mishca had struck him, and seeing him so weak made him irrationally angry.
“Why did you come here? What was your purpose?” He was taken aback by Mishca’s rage, trying to mumble out an answer, but it only infuriated him more. “Never mind. Go back to your room. There’s nothing more for us to discuss.”
“What if he killed someone you loved?” He went on desperately. “Would you just let him get away with it? I—”
He wouldn’t feel guilty. “I wouldn’t have let her die. Don’t blame your weakness on me.”
Looking even more broken than before, he retreated back to that room, slamming the door shut with a resounding click.
At that time, Mishca hadn’t been who he was today. His hatred was like a festering wound, and he unintentionally took it out on Klaus when he had needed him most. By the time the maid had come to him to say Klaus had escaped from the room the next morning, it was too late. He had already become a ghost. Since no one knew about Klaus’ existence—a stipulation that Jetmir had surprisingly followed—it made tracking him down even harder, but eventually, Mishca had found him. And he couldn’t say he liked the results of it.
Mishca had regretted that day for years. In part, he was the reason Klaus had turned into a mercenary.
“What are you doing here if not to kill me?” Mishca asked as he focused back on the present.
“The missus has offered me payment to track down whoever put you here. Tell me, does she really know the baggage you come with? She seems terribly fucking naïve.”
Mishca stared at him, baffled by his statement. “What are you talking about?”
Klaus tossed the magazine he’d been holding onto the floor, jumping to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. The bottom of his shirt rose up, showing jagged scar tissue across his abdomen. He came around Mishca’s bedside, reading the label on one of the bags that was connected to an IV in Mishca’s arm.
“Morphine. No wonder you’re asking dumb ass questions. Lauren, the girl that was stupid enough to marry you, hired me to do a job. Keep up, Russian.”
Sometimes his guilt made him forget how much Klaus annoyed him. “How did she find you?”
“Sent your pet dog on a hunt. A friend of a friend of an enemy got in touch.”
Mishca shook his head. “Deny the assignment.”
“No can do. Already took payment.”
Meaning he had to go through with whatever she asked of him. It was the way they worked, the code he lived by.
“She doesn’t understand what she’s asking you to do. I can’t—”
“Oh, I think she does. Don’t forget, she came to me. How long did it take before she was climbing back in your bed after she found out about her father? A week? Two?”
Mishca made a move to grab him, hissing in pain when the needle in the back of his hand pulled. Klaus just laughed, the infuriating bastard.
“Whatever your issue with me, leave her out of it.”
“And deny myself this entertainment? Doesn’t matter, until I find our sniper, she and I are going to get close. I mean, I could fuck her if I wanted, she wouldn’t know the difference.”
This time, Mishca didn’t give a damn about the IV. He ripped it free himself. The machine monitoring his heart rate beeped frantically, the nurses probably on their way.
Klaus held his hands up, still laughing though that humor didn’t reach his eyes. “See you soon, Russian.”
He was out the door moments before two nurses came racing in, urging Mishca back in the bed. It took a bit of convincing, but they finally left him after reattaching his IV and telling him the doctor would be in shortly.
Already, everything had gone to shit.
“What was it like?” Luka asked.
If it were anyone else, Mishca might’ve thought they genuinely wanted to know, but Luka…no, he would want to get shot just so he could experience the pain.
“Do you need to see someone?” Mishca asked catching the shirt Luka tossed at him. “There are a few shrinks that I have on call.”
“I had one, but apparently I was a ‘conflict of interest,’” he said the last part in an unusually high voice. “It wasn’t like I forced her to suck my dick. She volunteered.”
Shaking his head, Mishca didn’t know why he even bothered. “Did you do what I asked?”
“Boss-Boss is handling business across town, Vlad is chilling in the car, Alex is at school or wherever the fuck, and Lauren should be on her way up since I called her ten minutes ago.”
Mishca spun around. “I specifically told you not to.”
“She watched you die,” he said, oddly serious, “there was nothing I could have said that would have kept her from this room.”
Lauren was adamant that way.
It wasn’t that Mishca didn’t want to see her, he just didn’t want her to see him like this. All of his promises about keeping her safe, and on the one day she trusted him the most, he had failed her. A part of him was afraid that when she came, before he’d gotten a chance to figure out what to say to her, she would run from him again.
Shrugging on the shirt, threatening to cut off Luka’s hands when he offered to button up his shirt, Mishca reached for his phone, quickly scanning through local articles about the shooting. Despite what Luka had told him, coverage was minimum, though there was still a few more mentions of it than Mis
hca would have preferred.
There wasn’t much Mishca could do about his physical appearance—getting shot had that affect—but he could hide the sutured wound on his chest so Lauren wouldn’t have to see. The events of that day were murky at best, but he remembered Lauren being with him, so he didn’t want to make it any worse for her.
Voices in the hallway carried into the room. Lauren and his doctor, Mishca thought. He only had a second to send Luka a look, letting the enforcer know not to try anything stupid—though he would more than likely do it anyway.
The doctor entered first, smiling proudly as though he had single-handedly brought Mishca back from the brink of death. He probably had, but Mishca was too focused on Lauren to hear anything the man had to say.
She hovered at the door, almost like she was afraid to come near him. He didn’t want that. He hated seeing that fear in her eyes.
Stepping around the doctor, cutting him off mid-sentence, Mishca met her at the door, pulling her into his arms even as she protested. Her arms were loose around him, like she was afraid she would hurt him further if she held tighter. What little he did remember of their wedding day was mostly of her, her tears, her voice.
Even though they had an audience of two, Mishca wanted to calm her, reassure her that everything was fine, even if he wasn’t sure of that.
“I’m okay, Lauren,” he whispered in her ear, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “Look at me.”
Hesitantly, she did as he said, golden eyes searching his face. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he could imagine what she was seeing as she looked at him. Her expression mirrored the one he’d had the day he watched his mother slip away.
“I won’t leave you,” he promised.
She smiled sadly. “You can’t promise me that, Mish.”
“No, I can’t, but I can damn well try.”
He thought about Klaus’ spontaneous visit the night before, about what Lauren had asked of him, but he had time to talk to her about that later. Right now, he was more than ready to get out of the hospital.
Mishca turned back to the doctor, though he kept hold of Lauren’s hand. He listened patiently as the doctor went on about what he would need to do to keep the wound clean, and that he would need to return to the hospital in a few weeks time to get the stitches removed.
When he was finally finished—not that Mishca would have listened to any more—Mishca filled out his discharge forms, ready to get out of there.
“Your chariot awaits,” Luka announced grandly, reappearing with the wheelchair he’d just brought in, the manic grin on his face making Lauren giggle.
If not for her reaction, Mishca might have strangled him.
“I can walk.”
Instead of addressing him, the bastard, he turned to Lauren. “He really should use this. Doctor’s orders.”
Looking unsure, Lauren looked at him. “Mish—”
“Lauren, I’m fine.”
“Please.”
Sighing in defeat—knowing there was no way he would be getting out of that room until he complied—Mishca reluctantly sat in the chair, gritting his teeth when Luka began whistling a jaunty tune as he backed him out of the room.
When he got his enforcer alone, he would make him pay for this.
It took far longer than Mishca would have liked to get outside and to his Range Rover, thanks in part to Luka rolling him through every part of the hospital like he was a damn exhibit.
But Mishca’s last straw came when Luka opened the rear door, then crouched down like he was about to lift Mishca from the wheelchair.
Shoving him away, Mishca climbed to his feet. “Don’t make me shoot you.”
He cursed when he heard Lauren’s sharp intake, regretting his choice of words when he saw the look on her face.
Luka frowned. “Too soon.”
God, he would kill him.
Luka drove like the speed limit was only twenty miles an hour and it took them far longer to get to the penthouse than Mishca would have liked, but he didn’t complain, not with the way Lauren clung to his hand, staring apprehensively out the window.
Her eyes skirted over the towering buildings, like she thought she would be able to see any other threat against him. He pulled her closer to his side, wanting to take her mind off it.
Outside their building, there was far more security than Mishca would have liked, but he understood the caution all the same. Instead of going through the front, they pulled around to the rear, entering in through the service elevator that was being manned by five of Mikhail’s men. That annoyed Mishca. Mikhail couldn’t be there himself, but he sent some of his men? It wasn’t like he really cared, not anymore.
When they were finally inside the apartment, Mishca collapsed down onto the sofa, sighing in relief. He never had liked hospitals. Now that he was back, Mishca needed to plan his next move.
First thing first, he needed to hold a meeting, but his attention was snared by Lauren as she answered her phone, her expression growing pensive as she excused herself.
“Who was calling?” Mishca asked as she came back out into the living room a few minutes later.
She tried to hide her feelings from him, wanting not to worry him with trivial things when they were dealing with something much more important.
“Wasn’t anybody special,” she said with a wave of her hand, hoping he would go back to the conversation he’d been having with Vlad and Luka.
But he wasn’t ready to give in.
“Lauren, tell me.”
“The hotel in Hawaii called.” She didn’t have to explain further.
He looked surprised, much like she felt, though granted, she had thought very little about their honeymoon over the past couple of weeks. Seeing the expression on his face, she tried for a smile, wanting to wipe the worry away.
“It’s fine, Mish. We can reschedule.” He still didn’t look convinced. “Besides, I doubt you can go skinny-dipping with me so soon.”
That cleared it right up, at least until Luka added his two cents.
“Can I—”
“Finish that statement and die.”
“Christ, Boss, you’re no fun.”
Amber dropped by some days later, pretending not to notice the heavily armed men that were hovering around the apartment. She was carrying something rather large covered in newspaper, refusing to let anyone touch it.
“What the hell do you think I’m smuggling in here anyway?” She asked Turner when he made a move to grab it. “If I wanted to hurt Mishca, I’d stick a paintbrush up his ass.”
Luka, who had been drinking soda, spat it out, all over one of the guards who was standing next to him, less than amused. “Can we keep her?”
“Just ignore them,” Lauren said, hugging her closest friend. “I do.”
“And how are you, Mish? You look pretty spry.”
If Luka would have said something like that, Mishca would have glared at the man, but since it was Amber, and she was only trying to make him feel better, he smiled.
“Do you want a tour of the place?” Lauren asked.
“Sure, but I want to give you two your wedding present first.”
Amber handed over the wrapped package with a proud smile, waving her hands impatiently for them to open it.
It only took a few seconds of ripping paper to unveil the canvas beneath, and the portrait on the front took Lauren’s breath away. She vaguely remembered Amber taking pictures during the wedding, but she had thought it was more for her than what it turned out to be.
The portrait wasn’t just a blown up image that she had taken, rather an intricate recreation that Amber had painted. It was done in black and white, and if Lauren hadn’t known Amber better, she would have never believed that it was hand-crafted. Down in the right hand corner, in the smallest of scripts, was Amber’s signature.
“Amber, it’s beautiful.”
“Luchshe, chem ya mog sebe predstavit’—Better than I could have imagined,” Mishca added.
&nb
sp; “Oh stop,” Amber admonished though she did look pleased at the praise.
They sat and talked together for a while longer until Amber had gone and Mishca was alone in his office, staring at the bottle of amber liquid he had been forbidden to drink. Never in his life had he wanted a drink more.
Later that night, Mishca reclined back against the headboard, listening to Lauren move around in the bathroom. The shooting hung over them in different ways. She worried for him while he worried for her.
That was what love was.
The door creaked open, the light turning off as Lauren came out. Her eyes were downcast as she crossed to the bed, making him wish he knew what she was thinking. She was better at hiding from him than he originally thought.
As she lay beside him, curling into his side, the overwhelming relief she felt at having him beside her made her close her eyes. It didn’t matter that it had been almost a week since he came home. It all still felt new. She had never been more thankful for anything in her life.
She gently rested her hand in the center of his chest, right over the wound. With her, he didn’t feel any pain.
When she finally drifted off, he relaxed, but his mind was far from eased.
Klaus kept his hood up as he entered the warehouse in the heart of Brooklyn, heading towards the service elevator in the rear. Stepping inside, he found the black call box against the wall, punching a series of keys before dropping his hand when the gate slammed shut, the lift slowly descending. The farther down it went, the more noise began to filter through the walls, the shouting nearly masking the sound of the bell dinging as he stepped off.
Two floors beneath the surface of the warehouse was a place called Valhalla, an underground fighting ring that cared less about rules and more about profit. It was named from the Norse mythological land where slain soldiers were brought, hoping for endless meals and barmaids, but most of the people that came here were just hoping to make it out and live another day.
The giant room was composed of mostly concrete, stained with years worth of old blood and bodily fluids. There was no place to land comfortably if a fighter lost their footing…and even worse, if their opponent just wanted to slam their head against the ground.
The Final Hour Page 14
