by Ashley Hall
Golovkin himself wasn’t anywhere around that I could see. He had been busy, those years after he killed my family, and the sheer number of men he had in his house meant he had definitely planned for an attack, and damn it all if he wasn’t adequately prepared for it.
My ears were already ringing. There was a reason why people wore mufflers when firing at a shooting range.
Each time one of my men fell, I winced and sent up a mental prayer for them. I hadn’t wanted this. I may have wanted my revenge, but I had wanted it to come down to Vanya Golovkin and myself. No, that wasn’t completely true. I had drawn it out myself by wanting to ruin him through his family, as he had done with mine. If I hadn’t been so damn selfish, if I had just sought out my revenge immediately instead of playing bullshit games, none of this would have ever happened. Rachel would still be safe. Rachel never should have ever been involved in this at all. Once again, Golovkin had found a way to hurt someone I cared about.
I shot and shot and shot some more. My hands didn’t shake, and I hit more than I missed, but inwardly, I was trembling with rage. This was all my fault. I wouldn’t blame Rachel if she blamed me for this. It really was my fault. She would be better off without me. What can I give her but more of the same?
If she wanted out, if she wanted to be free, I would let her go. I never understood the saying about loving someone and letting him or her go so that if they came back, you would know that it really was love. But now I did. If I had to let her go, I would hope and pray she would come back to me. I would do anything for that. I would change. I would become a better man. Hell, I wanted to be a better man for myself. All of the rage and anger I had been living off of for so long had blinded me to how good my life had been. I hadn’t cared about my money or my family—my men, my mob. Out of the tragedy of losing my parents, I had forged myself a new family, but that hadn’t been enough for me and it should’ve been. I never should have been so caught up in revenge.
Bullets flew, and one whizzed so close to me that I had to duck. We were in the house, but none of us had left the entranceway. It was time to move forward, to press the attack.
I nodded to my men and signaled for them to fan out. We moved onward and pressed inward, and I darted into the first room I saw, closing the door behind me just in case anyone was following me. It was a bathroom. Empty. I turned to leave, when I heard rustling.
I shoved aside the shower curtain. Cowering in the tub was one of Golovkin’s men. “Please,” he begged, his eyes wide, his hands raised. My ears were still ringing from all of the gunshots, but I could hear him, even if just barely. “Please don’t kill me. I…I have a family. A wife. Two young kids.” He reached toward his side.
I aimed my gun at him. “Don’t move.”
He winced. Maybe I was talking too loudly. “I just want to show you… their picture,” he said. “My wallet…”
“Where?”
“Back left pocket.”
I made him stand up and turn around and grabbed out his wallet. He slowly turned back around as I opened it. Cute pictures of a little boy and girl playing in the sand, a picture of the guy and a beautiful woman in front of a nice but small house.
Not lowering the gun, I handed him back the wallet. “I’m—”
“I know who you are. I…Vanya’s my cousin and…” He winced. “Shouldn’t have said that…”
“I’m not here to kill just anyone,” I said hotly. “You fire at me, and I’ll fire back. You haven’t, but if you want to live, I suggest you start talking. Where is the bastard?”
“My cousin? Last I heard, he went out to buy more bullets, but he should’ve been back by now.”
“Where is he?” I growled, jabbing him with the nozzle of my gun.
The guy winced. “Probably upstairs. Look, I know I’m a coward. I shouldn’t have dashed in here, but…when push comes to shove, I pick my family over my cousin. Maybe that’s not right, but…yeah, it’s not right. I take his money. I do what he asks of me. I’ve done things…”
“We’ve all done things. Upstairs where? His bedroom? East, west?”
“Last door on the left. But he might be holed up in the basement. That’s where he keeps his armory. You really don’t want to go down there.”
“His wife and kids?”
“Aren’t here. Haven’t been since…” The guy glanced away.
“Since he realized one of my guys was involved with one of his daughters.”
The guy nodded.
“Is she…”
“Sent to live out of the country was what I heard. He won’t hurt one of his own. I don’t think. His vendetta against—”
The door opened. One of Golovkin’s men stood in the doorway. He raised his gun.
I grabbed Golovkin’s cousin and shoved him down as I ducked and fired. My second shot got the guy in the temple.
I turned to the cousin. “Get the hell out of here,” I barked. “Too many loose bullets, and you have a family to get back to.”
He nodded, pulled out a gun from his boot, and handed it to me. “You didn’t deserve all of this.”
Maybe, maybe not. I definitely played the game, and now a ton of men were caught up in the crosshairs, dying for a pointless war. Golovkin deserved to die for what he had done years ago and for what he had done now, but the others…who could say if they should be killed too?
I left the bathroom and fired shoots to cover my ass as I made my way toward the stairs. It might be smart to sabotage the armory, but I had come here first to save Rachel, not for revenge. She was what mattered most.
A few of my men followed me upstairs, and I did whisper to Nicolai about the armory so he could look into it if he found the opportunity to. There were even more men upstairs, which made me believe that either Rachel was up here or maybe his cousin had been right, and Golovkin was, or maybe they both were.
Rachel. I’m coming for you. I’ll save you. If it’s the last thing I do.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rachel
It sounded like a world war was going on outside of these four walls, my prison. I was terrified, afraid to move, afraid to leave, afraid to stay.
My stomach was cramping again, and I felt lightheaded, woozy. I had to brace a hand against the wall to keep from falling over. Should I try to make a break for it? Try to find one of Ivan’s men, to find Ivan himself? It might be better to stay put. All those guns going off, all of those bullets…the last thing I wanted was to be caught in the crossfire.
Hand still on the wall, I walked over to the window. If I wasn’t on the second floor, I would risk breaking a window and trying to escape that way, but I couldn’t risk it. There was no ledge outside of this window, just a straight drop down.
The sight of bodies lying on the floor, some of the men writhing around in pain, blood staining the grass, made me even sicker to my stomach, and I had to look away. God, help them. Help me too. Please. This is terrible.
Ivan had come for me, but at what cost to himself and his men? Yes, I had hoped and prayed he would come rescue me, but I never thought it would end up being such a bloodbath.
The gunfire continued, on and on without end, and shouts and screams filtered to me, as well as the sound of men fighting. Terrible howls of pain as shots connected. Threats of more violence, promises that loved ones would be hunted. I couldn’t make out all of the words, and I couldn’t recognize any of the voices. My ears were beginning to hurt, even though my closed door muffled the sounds of the shots.
How long the fighting lasted, I didn’t know. Had there been neighbors to this house? Couldn’t others hear the gunfire? Would they call the police? Maybe not, if they knew they lived near a mobster’s house. Couldn’t blame them for not wanting to get involved, and maybe the police showing up wasn’t a good idea. Ivan himself was a mob boss. The police might want to arrest him or his men.
And if that happened, if we were so close to reuniting only to be separated by jail bars this time, I wouldn’t be able to handle it.
I wasn’t meant for this kind of life. I needed to not live in fear. I needed something more.
I wanted something more. Out of my life. Out of his.
If we survived this somehow, I wanted to do something with my life. I didn’t just want to be Ivan Kovalsky’s woman or his baby mama. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help women who had been abused or kidnapped. I wanted to help them survive. I wanted to give them hope.
Hell, I needed hope myself right now.
The man who had kidnapped me…he wouldn’t be able to get away with this, right? I could see him try to claim this all as self-defense. They came to my house, guns ablazin’. We had no choice but to fire back. The thought sickened me. If I survived this, I would do whatever it took, I would testify, I would make sure he would end up convicted and in jail.
But I had never seen the man behind the curtain. I didn’t even know his name. His men talked about him but only ever referred to him as their boss. What if he tried to claim ignorance? What if he threw his men under the bus and said they acted under their own authority? That he hadn’t ordered them to take me? It would be my word against theirs, and considering I was involved with a mob boss, would the jury believe me?
The gunfire and the shouts of the angry and the wails of the dying grew louder. I slid backward to the corner. What if the door opened but it wasn’t Ivan or one of his men on the other side? What if the mobsters holding me hostage decided that they didn’t need to keep me around anymore? That I was expendable? There wasn’t a weapon here. All it would take would be a gunshot.
The doorknob jiggled, and I held my breath. The door opened. The guy standing there was one I didn’t recognize, but it didn’t matter if he was friend or foe because suddenly he slumped down, bleeding profusely, dead from a shot to the temple.
I stifled a scream, my hand over my mouth. I was going to be sick again. This was a nightmare. So much death and carnage. I was going to die here. This was it. The end for the baby and me. We would die. Ivan might have already died. Who knew? The two mobs might shoot each other to the point of destroying both mobs.
Trying to calm my stomach, I held it, hunched over, walking bent over to the door, but I didn’t leave. Bullets were whizzing by in the hallway. The house shook suddenly from a big blast beneath us, and I stumbled to the ground, landing hard. What was going on?
I brought myself up to my feet, peeked outside, and in the room across from mine, I saw Ivan. He was holding a man by the throat. His lips moved, and from his facial expression, it was obvious he was shouting. Whoever the man was, Ivan was beyond pissed at him. His arm came up, and I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth. Was he going to execute the guy? No. Ivan pistol-whipped the man, knocking him unconscious.
“Ivan!” I tried to cry out, but his name was unintelligible on my lips.
Or maybe not. He turned around, and his eyes widened. The expression on his face…I would never forget it. He looked at me like I was his whole world, his sole reason for breathing, and I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle the terror that had been my life throughout this ordeal. I couldn’t handle the thought that I might be saved. I couldn’t handle Ivan and his baggage or my baggage either.
I didn’t mean to, but I started to cry. There was still fighting going on, but it did seem to be winding down some. The number of shots fired was going down. Maybe they were starting to run out of bullets. I risked a few steps forward so I could peek up and down the hallway. I sorely wished I hadn’t. The amount of dead bodies was terrible. Piles of them. Men stepping over them to shoot at others. The cost was way too high.
Ivan was making his way too me, but I didn’t want him to, terrified that a stray bullet might hit him, but then he was standing in front of me and picking me up, cradling me to his chest. I had wanted this moment for so long that it didn’t feel real. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe I was hallucinating or sleeping. Yes. This was all a dream. A nightmare. Both in one.
It took me a few tries to be able to lift my arms to wrap them around his neck. I could feel him, his hard, long body. He felt real. He smelled real. He looked real. Maybe this wasn’t a dream after all.
I was still crying, the tears hot against my cheeks. He had to know. He might have saved me, but the baby…I didn’t know if the baby still lived or if I had lost him or her, and that pain remained with me despite my happiness at being held by Ivan again.
Through tears and gasps for breaths, with my eyes closed so I couldn’t see his reaction, I managed to say, “I’ve been bleeding. Ivan…Ivan, I probably lost the baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry…”
I couldn’t stop apologizing, to both him and to myself. When I opened my eyes, I saw that his face was fierce and grim, so grim. But he didn’t say anything. He just walked down the hallway, stepping over bodies, ignoring the carnage. He held me close, and I should feel safe. I had always felt safe in his arms.
I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t feel happy.
My sense of happiness, my sense of self, my sense of security…they had taken a lot more than just my body by holding me prisoner.
Ivan carefully carried me downstairs, cradling me close to his chest, and we made our way outside. He tenderly placed me in the backseat of his car and belted me in. Then he got behind the wheel. Taking me away from my prison. Taking me to the hospital.
I was free.
But I still felt trapped.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ivan
Leaving wasn’t easy. I had hit Vanya Golovkin hard in the temple with the butt of my gun, but he was just unconscious. He wasn’t dead. I hadn’t had my revenge. I had gone upstairs, hoping to find either Golovkin or Rachel.
And I did find Golovkin, or rather he found me.
Maybe because of his cousin, or maybe because I was growing more desperate and just wanted to find Rachel as quickly as possible, but I found myself aiming for legs rather than head shots. I was shooting to stop rather than kill. Might be stupid, but I did find that since I changed my shot location, that my bullets were hitting their mark with more precision.
The amount of Golovkin’s goons up here was insane. It was a blessing I didn’t come up by myself. The ringing in my ears was growing worse, and my arms were growing sore from holding up the guns, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t quit.
My guys and I were in a tight circle, back to back, firing both sides of the hallway. Golovkin’s guys flooded the hallway, although some stayed in the doorways, using them as a shield to pop out from behind.
A few of my men, myself included, wore Kevlar. It wasn’t easy to get hands on it, or else I would’ve gotten enough for every single one of us.
Fuck! A bullet slammed into my chest. Thank God for that Kevlar, but the jolt of impact still made me wince. Forgetting myself, I shot and killed the man who hit me.
Up and down the hall, I noticed which doors guys had left from and which had guys hiding in. Two doors had no activity, both on the left.
I motioned for the man next to me to cover me, and I darted down the hallway. The gun from Golovkin’s cousin ran out of bullets, and I used the butt of it to slam into the temple of a guy who rushed me. After I shot off another couple of shots, I knocked a guy down, shoved another toward one of his mates, and tackled yet another one. The useless gun smacked against his face, and he stopped moving.
More volleys of shots fired overhead, and I kept low as I neared the doors in question.
One of them opened, and I darted inside to see none other than Vanya Golovkin, surrounded by no less than ten of his men.
“Leave us,” Golovkin demanded. “He’s mine.”
I dropped the bullet-less gun and stepped forward to allow his men enough space to be able to live. How fitting that it would come down to this—to just him versus just me.
“You never should’ve taken her,” I growled.
Golovkin shrugged. “You never should’ve had your man sniff around my daughter.”
I circled around him, my gun raised and aim
ed directly at his. “If your daughter wouldn’t have talked so freely, he wouldn’t have bothered with her skirts.”
He sneered and fired a shot that I jerked to the side to avoid.
“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” I mocked.
“You’re too arrogant and cocky for someone who has lost so much already. Or have you forgotten what I did to your parents? It was my mistake that I didn’t kill you off then.”
I smirked at him. “There’s a reason why you haven’t tried harder to kill me. You need the ransom money more than you need me dead. Oh, I’m sure you’ll kill me if I bothered to pay you, but—”
