WASHED AWAY

by RC Boldt

  “And if I do?” I prompt.

  “Then he will consider it as the gift it is.”

  I hold his hard stare, refusing to look away, and the twitching nerve beside his left eye tells me it grates on his nerves.

  His words are muted but hold a legion of disgust and resentment. “Sergei Vinogradov was responsible, and he’ll be on his yacht at slip seven tonight.” Eyes glittering with devious intent, my heart nearly lodges itself in my throat when he adds, “He’s about to set out to sea once again, on vacation, so he won’t have his usual security with him.”

  Bordering on a languid motion, he rises from his seat, sliding it in neatly. Two steps are all it takes to reach my side, and he waits for my eyes to meet his.

  “Slip seven at the marina. After dusk tonight.”

  With that, he walks out of the shop without a backward glance.

  I nurse my coffee for an hour, watching as people come and go. I scan my surroundings and the street outside for anything out of the ordinary but don’t detect anything.

  My mind whirs, replaying my conversation with the man. The confirmation that Sergei Vinogradov, Mikhail’s son, gave the order for my father’s murder settles like a lead weight in the pit of my stomach. Papa had been right to expect the asshole to punish him for leaving the Bratva years ago.

  Fury bubbles up inside me, rising higher and higher like fiery-hot lava, nearly spilling over. That itself tells me what I need to do.

  As soon as I step out onto the sidewalk, my shoulders feel like a weight has been lifted from them.

  I’ll serve vengeance to the man who took everything from me.

  I’m not delusional enough to believe that I’ll succeed in killing Sergei and get away with my life intact. But as long as I remove the bastard from this earth, I’ll die happy, knowing I didn’t stand by and allow him to continue living.

  He’ll die for killing my father. And if I lose my life ensuring this, I’ll have no regrets.

  It just means I’ll be reunited with Papa earlier than either of us anticipated.

  Chapter 64

  ALEXANDRA

  PRESENT

  My mind races with the revelation that I’d fallen for their trick. One Bratva giving me information to eliminate their rival? I inwardly scoff at my naiveté. As if they included outsiders in their messes.

  I had boarded that yacht stupidly assuming I would kill Sergei and avenge Papa’s death. That it would be that simple.

  Instead, I’d walked into the lion’s den, serving myself on a golden platter. It’s only a minor consolation that the bastard who’d approached me in that coffee shop had been one of the men who ambushed us at Liam’s house and is now dead.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, careful not to rouse Liam. When he doesn’t move a muscle but snores softly, I smile before it quickly fades.

  Because I know what I have to do, and it requires me to leave him behind.

  As quietly and stealthily as possible, I dress and stuff only the necessities into my backpack. Then even while bile rises up my throat at the act, I slip the wad of cash from Liam’s wallet inside the zippered pouch on my bag.

  I know that Saint will loan or even give him money, and I silently vow that if I get us out of this mess, I’ll repay Liam.

  Once I sling the straps over my shoulders, I hesitate at the foot of the bed. Staring at the man sprawled upon his stomach, clad in only boxer briefs, my eyes trace over every cut and curve of muscle I’ve had my mouth and hands on. His brown hair fans over his pillow, lips slightly parted.

  I’m going to end this, not just for myself but also for Liam. I owe him this much. He should’ve never been involved in my mess.

  I blink rapidly, willing the unshed tears to evaporate because they do me no good. Slowly, I pad over to the side of the bed and whisper, “I love you, Liam King.” I pinch my eyes closed at the onslaught of anguish flooding me. “Forever and always.”

  For the briefest moment, I indulge in the vision of a future for us. One where we live out our lives together, tending to patients, basking in the remote and tranquil environment of his home.

  Bending down, I place a soft kiss on his cheek, memorizing the sensation of his scruff against my lips.

  When I sneak out of the bedroom and pull the door shut soundlessly, my heart aches like someone’s taken the sharpest dagger to it, daring to cut it straight from my chest.

  I force myself to walk down the hall as quietly as possible, carrying my flip-flops in one hand. Once I venture past the kitchen, I hesitate at the closed door leading to the basement.

  There’s a hoard of weapons there, but I also noticed some knives. I’d be stupid not to arm myself in some way, least of all in a way I’m better trained.

  “Where you headed?”

  I jump at the casually posed question, guilt seeping through every pore. Shit. I turn and discover Saint leaning against the doorway. Though his stance isn’t the least bit imposing as he casually rests his shoulder against the doorjamb, I still get the impression he’s like a rattlesnake waiting to strike.

  Sagging against the closed basement door, I heave out a breath. “I have to end this. I can’t drag him further into my mess. I”—my voice cracks, and I clear my throat—“I love him too much to do that to him.”

  He regards me for a beat. “So, you’re planning to head there on your own? What, without any ID? Who do you think is gonna let you board a flight?”

  I lift my chin stubbornly even though he mentions valid points. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Eyes narrowing on me, he doesn’t respond for a beat. “You got your memory back.” He says this not as a question but as an observation.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re planning to head to South Africa and take on the Bratva all by yourself.” Again, he states this.

  I nod slowly, eyeing him warily. “Yes.”

  “Why?” The challenge in his tone is evident.

  “Why?” I toss a hand up in exasperation. “Because they’ve ruined my life, and now, they’re ruining the life of the man I love!”

  My words don’t appear to register with him, his expression remaining placid. “How’d they ruin your life?”

  I swallow hard past the lump of burgeoning emotion threatening to permanently lodge itself there. A two-ton weight plunks atop my chest as I prepare to disclose something I’ve never admitted to another soul.

  “They killed my father. Once I went after who did it—once I killed them—less than a year later, I was given information on the man who gave the order for my father’s death.”

  Saint doesn’t interject with any questions, and I’m grateful because everything pours from me. Admitting this aloud has relief radiating through every fiber of my body. “The son who took over the Bolsevska Bratva from his father ordered my father’s murder.”

  My lips instinctively form a sneer, my voice caustic. “He couldn’t stand that my father had been granted release from his work for Mikhail Vinogradov.”

  Something flickers in Saint’s expression, but he listens intently as I continue.

  “My father was a good man—he did his best to make amends for what he did while working for Mikhail. He changed his life for the better.” I mash my lips together as anguish lances deep, and it makes me wonder if the loss of my father will ever cease hurting. “He was a wonderful father.”

  “When did he die?” Something I can’t decipher sparks in Saint’s gaze.

  “Just before I graduated from college.” I force the words out from a bone dry throat. “A little over two years ago.”

  “Hm.” That’s all he says a moment before straightening. His gaze is speculative. “Well, I’ve got some stipulations before you leave.”

  When I part my lips to protest, he cuts me off. “I need to give you a better crash course in handguns. Then I’m gonna feed you.” His tone brooks no argument, the finality in his voice evident. “Because no true warrior goes into battle on an empty stomach.”

&nbs
p; His voice turns to steel, unyielding and so icy that a shiver rolls down my spine. “But first, I wanna know why you’re going it alone.”

  I pinch my eyes closed for a second, willing my emotions to stay under wraps. “Because I can’t stand by, knowing what I know now, and allow Liam to be in danger.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “You think he can’t fend for himself?”

  A rough exhale falls past my lips. “It’s not that. I just…”

  He waits me out patiently as though we have all the time in the world.

  Though my voice sounds small, it’s forged with determination. “If I don’t do this and he dies, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  My words are greeted with agonizing silence before Saint pads over to me, and I tense, my breath suspending painfully in my throat.

  He reaches past me for the basement door handle, his expression filled with determination.

  “Let’s get started.”

  Over thirty hours later, I’m preparing to deplane the small private jet Saint arranged for me.

  Saint had done as he’d said and given me a quick refresher on the more lightweight handguns and fed me afterward. Then he’d handed me a thick rubber-banded wad of money and keys to one of his vehicles, along with directions to the small private airspace.

  Now, armed with a few handguns and knives stashed in the lightweight black vest he gave me, I’m still in the black tank top and pants. Saint made me promise to grab more durable footwear once I land, but I’m not certain I wish to delay this any longer.

  I’m easily walking to my death. Whether I go in barefoot or in boots won’t make a damn bit of difference. This time, though, I will end this. To take Sergei’s life and those of his asshole men and prevent them from putting Liam in more danger.

  Forever and always. That’s how long Papa said he’d love me. My main regret is that he never got to meet Liam, to meet the man who showed me not the love of a boy disguised as a man but the love of a real man.

  Papa would like him. This I know with utter certainty.

  As soon as I descend to the tarmac, I steel my spine, attempting to prepare myself for what’s to come.

  They left me for dead, not expecting me to return for them. My memory may have been washed away for a brief time, but it’s back now.

  And so is my need for vengeance.

  Chapter 65

  LIAM

  “Pacing sure as shit doesn’t do much good. Unless you’re needing the exercise…” Saint lifts an eyebrow as if he’s scanning me for weight gain. “Mm. Tough to say.”

  I flip him the bird and continue pacing. Frustration oozes from me, and I drag my fingers through my hair, clenching them and pulling tight. “I can’t believe you fucking let her go.”

  He lets out a long, weary-sounding sigh. Probably because I’ve said this at least a dozen times.

  At his house.

  On the way to the airport.

  Once we boarded the plane.

  “How could you just”—I drop my hands from my hair, fingers curling into tight fists—“let her go?”

  Saint drums his fingers on his armrest. “Told you, she got her memory back. She wanted to end this shit and keep you safe.”

  I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “And you thought I’d be okay with it?”

  His eyes sharpen on me. “This woman’s father murdered your family.” He lets his words hang between us. “I was there for their fucking funeral. And I sure as hell remember when you got the intel on who was responsible for their deaths.”

  Silence descends, thick and cloying, with painful memories nipping at its heels. He slaps a hand to the center of his chest. “I was there when you swore to get revenge on the killer.” Brows descending, his voice morphs, turning less harsh. “And I watched it give you something to fucking live for.”

  “You think I don’t remember that?!” I explode, pinning him with a steely glare. I mash my lips firmly, nostrils flaring as I try to calm myself.

  My voice holds less volume, but I grind out the words with my jaw clenched tight. “Yurchenko was known for his preference for knives and staging murders as suicides.” Better yet, he greased the right palms to have them ruled as suicides. Death by self-inflicted stabbing, pinpointing a crucial organ every time.

  That’s what they said about my family. That my father had stabbed his wife and daughter before taking his own life.

  Those painful memories quell my anger at Saint, leaving me with the resignation that I’ve fucked up with Alex. That I didn’t come clean when I should have.

  And now, it’s an even bigger clusterfuck. Because the woman I love—the woman whose father murdered my family, the woman I’d vowed to kill to avenge their deaths—is running straight into the devil’s arena.

  Dropping onto the leather seat, I expel a heavy sigh. “I knew, deep down, that going into retirement wouldn’t paint me in a good light.”

  Saint makes a derisive sound, but I ignore him.

  “I never expected them to want me to work for them badly enough to put a hit on my family.”

  “But it worked.”

  I lift my gaze to his, and I can practically see the gears grinding in his mind. “What do you mean?”

  “It worked. Sergei got you indebted to him through that deal.”

  Leaning forward in his seat, he links his fingers and stares down at the floor. “Look, I can speak from experience on emotions running high after traumatic events happen in a person’s life. You’re less likely to notice the most obvious details and end up making an…uninformed mistake.”

  Voice dropping an octave lower, he murmurs, “You get right with yourself in one way only to jump right back into one hell of a shitstorm.”

  Thick silence descends before he lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “Look…she said her father was a good man. That he changed his ways.” His eyes cut to mine. “People can change, King. You’re proof of that.”

  Every fiber in my body goes still at his words. My tone is muted, as if I’m actually afraid to voice my question. “You think she’s telling the truth?” My throat threatens to swell shut on me because, fuck, I miss her already, and it’s only been a few hours.

  He holds my gaze. “What I do know is anguish and loss when I see it. And your woman’s wrapped up in it so tight, it’s a wonder she can even breathe.” He expels a long sigh. “But I also know how easy it is to overlook things. Faults of those you love.”

  Scrubbing a hand down his face, he stares at the carpeting, and his expression turns pensive. “You need to figure out what’s more important to you. Getting revenge for your family? Or realizing it’s time to let go and actually live your life.”

  He leans back in his seat, resting one ankle on his knee, eyes lifting to mine. “You gotta make that call. It’s time to tell him you’re finally coming in tonight to fulfill the terms of your agreement.”

  He lets that hang between us for a beat before rolling his eyes at me. I forget just how well he knows me, even after all these years. His words emerge on a long, exasperated breath. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, King. I’ll let you handle everything once we land.”

  Even though his tone grates on my nerves, I can’t risk anyone else getting hurt. Too many people I care for have suffered already under the Bratva’s hands.

  It’s time to end Sergei’s reign.

  Chapter 66

  ALEXANDRA

  I haven’t set foot in South Africa since that fateful day Papa found me.

  I’m unable to describe how the particular scent of the air smells familiar even after all this time.

  Even the outskirts of Orania look differently now through adult eyes compared to when I was a child.

  Memories, though still hazy and unfocused, rush to the forefront of my mind, and they have my lungs seizing and throat burning with emotion.

  He—my birth father— had been one of the most honest policemen. Although I recall continuously wishing I was worthy of his love, I understood even then
that his job was his passion.

  The odd thing about memories is when they’re derived from childhood, not everything clicks together rationally. Sometimes, revisiting those painful times in your mind will isolate little details you previously missed.

  Now, as I stare at the road where it all happened—where my life began to unravel—my mind rewinds, and I see things much more clearly.

  Even then, so young and innocent, I could recognize the love my parents shared.

  My mother might’ve wished for a husband who was home more often, but her love for him was unyielding. She would wait for him to come home each night and kiss him at the door. They’d often unwind over a glass of wine and he’d talk about his busy day.

  I used to sneak from my bed and curl up on the stairs in our house, listening to my parents’ hushed voices.

  Some nights, he’d complain about his stepbrother—my uncle—and how he continuously refused his guidance. On others, he’d vent about his workday.

  I didn’t realize it then, but two days before our lives changed, my father had spoken about reports that the Orekskaya Bratva had moved into the area.

  “There’s no firm proof yet, but these leads have me thinking…” he’d told my mother.

  It wasn’t until years later that Papa told me the Bratva were known for money laundering and dealing in high-powered weapons. My father believed they were responsible for inciting violence with the local gangs in order to keep the police busy and the spotlight off their operations.

  My father had been touted as a hero for cracking down on criminal activity in the area. He’d just launched an investigation into the cause of the sudden rise in gang activity and violence.

  I wonder if he knew or expected things to take a much more violent turn when we’d arrived near the center of town that day.