Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  “Ambulance? Cops?”

  “I called. Seems someone else called too. They should be here any minute.”

  “I called them,” I growl.

  Chloe stirs, wincing as she moves. Her eyes are trained on the man on the floor. His screams have turned into pathetic hitching whimpers. She looks up at me and holds out her hand toward the semi, waggling her fingers. I shouldn’t trust her. There’s no way in hell I should provide Chloe Becker with a weapon of destruction that can rip my body apart in a second, but I turn the semi, letting the barrel point to the floor, and hand it to her without a word. Chloe takes it, aims it toward the writhing man and then an ear-shattering thunder echoes between the walls as she fires off a few rounds into his chest, making it deflate into an unrecognizable mess of torn flesh. The recoil thrusts her back against the bed, the spray of bullets continuing in an arc along the wall and up in the ceiling before it stops. Dustin and I are already flat on the floor. With my heart in my throat I keep my eyes trained on her, adrenaline shooting out of my ears, ready to rip the weapon out of her hands.

  Panting, she looks at me, her face twisted in disgust, then she drops the gun and sinks to the floor. I’m up and catching her before I know it.

  “He was gonna… They were gonna rape me. They said… I’m gonna be sick!”

  I look down at her, rub my thumb over her face, rubbing off some of the blood. She looks like Stephen King’s Carrie, drenched, nightmarish, her eyes wide, frightened. There’s a bruise below her eye, a swelling. Her lip is split. I pull up the hem of my shirt from my pants and begin to wipe her face. It’s not right. She shouldn’t have these pigs’ blood on her. Chloe shivers and, realizing she’s naked, I quickly unbutton my shirt and shrug it off my shoulders, covering her up.

  “Don’t worry about it, they’re gone. They won’t hurt you again.”

  She buries her face in my chest and inhales erratically. “Thank you.”

  I hug her harder and somewhere inside my chest there’s a growing pain mixing with impotent rage. I want to kill them again, and again. I should have disabled them, thrown them in chains and cut little pieces from their bodies until they perished for touching what’s mine. Dead is good too, though. Very final. She squirms out of my grip and crawls on all fours to the bathroom. In the distance the blaring of sirens increases.

  I cock my head to Dustin. “Go meet up. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. And they take care of Ivan first!”

  Dustin nods and disappears without another word. I go to Chloe as I haul up my phone and call Eric. He answers promptly. There’s shouting in the background, sounds from cars.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” he growls.

  “Where the fuck are you?” I ask as I collect Chloe’s long, blonde hair in my free hand and hold it back as she clutches the toilet, dry retching.

  “We’ve shot up the Russians. It’s in the middle of the fucking day, in a residential area, it took some time. We couldn’t just storm in. We’re moving now.”

  “Their friends came here,” I say, gritting my teeth, taking in Chloe’s naked, shaking form. My gaze falls on the long, thin scars on her back, my cruelty forever etched into her skin. I put them there. I should be fucking shot too.

  Eric is quiet.

  I tighten my lips. “Did someone get away?”

  “No. None.”

  “Well, they had the time to alert someone. We’re under attack.”

  “Anyone hurt.”

  “Ivan lies in the hallway, blood all over him.”

  I have to rip the phone away from my ear as Eric lets out a deafening string of curses.

  Chloe sinks back, staring up at me, hugging her chest. I pull a thick towel off the heated rack and wrap it around her. Everything gets bloody. Their fucking blood. When this is over, I’ll be drenched in a lot more Russian blood than this, and they’ll regret ever fucking with my people.

  “I’ll be with you in thirty,” says Eric, his voice strained.

  “Don’t fucking bother. The EMTs are already here. Find out where they’re taking Ivan and be with him at the hospital.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “He better be or I’ll kill him myself.” I hold Chloe’s pained gaze and she doesn’t let go of mine. I suddenly know what I must do. “You did good, Eric, sending Anna away. Now go. I have things to take care of.”

  “Will do,” he says, “I’ll keep you posted. But fucking answer the next time.” Eric disconnects and I drop the phone next to me.

  I reach out and pull some hair away from Chloe’s face. “How are you?” I ask softly, as if I would scare her if I was louder.

  She huddles in her towel, looking eerily like how she looked that first day in my basement, though she wasn’t covered in blood then, but bruises.

  “How the fuck do you think I feel?” she snarls.

  I sit and pull her stiff body into my arms. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Chloe

  The shudders are bone deep. My teeth chatter. I can’t control my body. Salvatore holds me tight, so tight that I can barely get air, but I feel oddly safe in his embrace, as if nothing bad can ever happen again now that he is here.

  “Did they…” He hesitates. “Did they rape you?”

  “What difference does it make?” I sneer. “Am I used up for you now? Time to find a new girl?”

  Salvatore pushes me away, holds me at arm’s length. “What the fuck are you on about? I just wanted to know. I figure it makes a difference to a woman if they put their cocks in you and fucking tore up your innards.”

  I slump, he catches me. “No,” I mumble. “Not their cocks. Just… hands.”

  “Did they use any of my… tools?”

  “They tried. They couldn’t get past the locks. They talked about the cross, but the fuckers never got there.”

  Nausea rises in me again, thinking about it. They tried to break open the cabinet. I screamed. I screamed for help. I screamed for Salvatore, for Ivan, for anyone to save me. One of them held me down while the other two cursed and kicked at it. They would have broken me, beaten me to a pulp if they’d gotten hold of his cruel canes.

  Salvatore lets out a growl that makes my chest clench. “Good. Where are you hurt?”

  I stop and feel, reach inside. “My face. Throat. Breasts. Between my legs.” His breath hitches and he draws in air as if to speak. “Can I please shower? We’re not going to the cops anyway, are we? Can I get this shit off me now?”

  “Definitely,” he says and stands, taking my hand. Reaching into the shower, he turns the faucet and then holds his hand in the water, the bathroom steaming up. “Come.” He pulls me to him, and I stumble into the warm stream.

  I look him over. He’s naked from the waist up but… “Your pants? They’ll get wet.”

  Salvatore scoffs and opens his belt and zipper, pulling the soiled and already soaked suit pants off him. “That’s the least of anyone’s worry.” He pulls off his boxers as well and we’re naked. There’s nothing threatening about it. Nothing sexual. It just is. Stepping under the stream, he reaches for the soap. “I’ll get rid of this shit for you. I’m sorry for shooting them up all over you, but I reacted on instinct. I couldn’t give them time to reach for their guns, hurt you. You understand?”

  “I understand.” I close my eyes. His hands caress along my shoulders, rubbing my neck, down along my back. “I’m glad they’re dead.”

  He continues along my front, past my breasts and belly, my back lightly touches his chest. “If you hadn’t been locked up here, none of this would have happened,” he mumbles. There’s something akin to regret in his voice.

  “If you hadn’t locked me up, I’d have been dead. By your hands.”

  His hands stop on my hips. “That was a long time ago.”

  I lean into him and he puts his arms around me, holding me tight. “But it’s still true,” I say.

  Salvatore doesn’t answer, just keeps holding me. His chest heaves with every breath, his heart thuds a steady
rhythm. It feels bizarrely safe, familiar.

  “That’s history,” he finally says, his voice tainted with emotion. He reaches for the soap and continues to lather me. The red rivulets by my feet have turned into mere streaks of red and it decreases by the second. “Spread your legs.”

  I’m conditioned to do as he says without thinking, and with not even a second of hesitation, I put my feet wider apart and let him slide his hand in between my legs, carefully rubbing along my pussy. He doesn’t intrude. He doesn’t take. In this moment, Salvatore isn’t the man I’ve come to know. He’s tender, caring, and I don’t know who he is anymore. Crouching, he continues along my legs. I hold my head in the hot stream, turning my face up to let the pouring water hammer on my skin. I need every last remnant of the would-be rapists gone. Nausea rises in me again, thinking about them, but I force it down. They’re dead. Really, really fucking dead. Every assaulted girl should have a mob boss on their side, shooting their rapists to pieces. Instant karma. I surprise myself with my own bloodthirst.

  I’m pulled out of my reverie when he takes my hand and pours soup in my palm. “Face.”

  I nod, and rub. “Do you have something I can scrub with. I want to scrub myself raw. I want to remove my skin.”

  “Yeah, that’s not happening. Just get yourself clean. It’ll wear off. You’re a tough cookie.” Pouring shampoo in my hair, he begins to rub my scalp and I close my eyes, relaxing into his touch despite everything that has happened, everything he is.

  “Why are you good to me?” I say slurry.

  Salvatore is silent. Finally I turn to him. He’s frowning and there’s concern in his eyes for a brief moment before he closes his face. Reaching past me, he turns off the shower and grabs a fresh towel that he wraps around my shoulders.

  “Dry up,” he mutters and steps out.

  “How is Ivan?”

  He freezes up. “Probably dead.” His voice is flat, emotionless.

  My heart sinks like a stone. Ivan has become a part of my life, almost as vital to my existence as breathing. I take a step out of the bathroom and come to a halt when I see the slaughterhouse before me. I never knew the damage a semi-automatic rifle could do to a body. The massive amount of bullets that hit them have almost ripped them in half.

  “I…” I take a step back. “I can’t.”

  “Don’t look. Come.” Salvatore grabs under my thighs and my back and hoists me up in his arms, carrying me through the bedroom, out into the hallway and into the other bedroom. He puts me down on the bed. Pulling out drawers and opening the closet, he finds clothes that he puts on. Black jeans. A black T-shirt that sits snug over his chest, his muscles bulging and straining the material. “Wait here.”

  “Will you be back?” I croak.

  He caresses a strand of wet hair off my forehead. “I’ll need to send you away, Chloe. You can’t stay here.”

  “What?”

  He turns and disappears out the door, locking it. I dart up and pull the handle to no avail.

  “What?”

  Chapter 21

  Luciano

  Eric has called twice. I listen to the voicemail, my heart speeding up to a mad staccato at his words, then I call Dustin and charge through the hallway. Ivan is hanging on by a thread down at Zuckerberg, and I couldn’t care less about what state my house is in, or who is here. We’re leaving now. I can’t lose Ivan. I can’t see a future where I wouldn’t have the man by my side.

  There are cops everywhere. A senior detective I know vaguely comes up to me to talk, but I push past him. “Later,” I growl and stride out the front door. Dustin waits by the car. He has to zig-zag between the vehicles in my front yard and mow down a couple of bushes, but soon we’re speeding down the hill. I call Eric.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Ivan’s in the OR. They’re pulling bullets out of his chest as we speak.”

  “Everybody else?”

  “We had a couple of losses. Matteo is fine.”

  “Luca?”

  “He didn’t even make it to the airport back in Chicago before all hell broke loose here, Luci. He’s on his way, though.”

  “What happened. Why did you go in? Why didn’t you wait for nightfall?”

  “They were packing up and were on the move. We decided to strike while we had them gathered.”

  I can’t argue with that logic. “And who the fuck are the three mongrels lying scattered all over my bedroom? Who attacked my house?”

  “I can only assume they had a backup plan to take you out and that someone made the call.”

  “Three people? That’s fucking insulting.”

  “Seems to me that was enough.”

  “They knew the house was almost empty,” I say, gritting my teeth. Almost empty.

  “What about the staff?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” I snarl. “I left the house crawling with cops and EMTs. Whoever lives, lives.”

  “Cops?”

  “Didn’t have much of a fucking choice. We’ll sort that out later,” I growl as I glance out the window. “Where can I find you? I’ll be with you in a few.”

  Dustin pulls up outside the fancy red brick and glass entrance of the Zuckerberg Trauma Center as Eric explains where he is. I instruct Dustin to gather our people and to get the situation back under control, and that no one touches my private wing.

  Eric sits frozen as if he’s a statue, staring emptily in front of him, his fists clenched. His face is emotionless as he looks up at me. “We’ve never been this bad off, Luci.”

  “Is there any-fucking-one I can talk to anywhere? I need some clarity.”

  Eric tilts his head toward a glass booth in the far-right corner. The young nurse widens her eyes as our gazes meet. I don’t know what the fuck I look like, and I don’t care. “Ivan Sokolov,” I growl. “I need an update on his state. Pronto.”

  “I’m, I’m sorry, sir… Are you next of kin?”

  I slam my fist on the desk. “That’s none of your fucking business. I need a doctor. Give me someone who can give me some answers!”

  She darts up, the chair shooting backward, hitting the wall, making a pile of papers scatter. “They’re working on him, sir,” she says pleadingly and lifts a phone. “Please just sit, or I’ll need to call the guard.”

  I lean forward, clenching my jaw. “I am Luciano Salvatore. If you call anyone I’ll find out where you fucking live. Do you understand?”

  “Someone will be with you as soon as they know anything,” she whispers, her face ashen.

  I twist my lips, then I spin around and stalk back to Eric.

  “This is a fucking nightmare,” he says. “You need to clean house. Send everyone away who can’t shoot and who you can’t afford losing.”

  My mind spins with the implications. We’re under attack. There’s been skirmishes over the years, but I’ve never had everything threatened before. My whole empire. My business. My people.

  “Luci! Wake the fuck up. Get to it. Get David, Carmen and the lot out of town. See to Elena. We gotta shut down our clubs. Nothing opens tonight or they’ll all be at risk of an escalation. Revenge.”

  I dart up and pace the room as I pull up the phone and call my long-time partner.

  “This is a surprise,” says Elena. “Did my advice work?”

  “Elena. Shut down your business immediately. Arm your girls or send them away. Shit is going down and no one is safe.”

  She’s quiet a moment. “What are you saying?”

  “We’re at war. I can’t spare people to guard your house. Send off your girls or prepare to defend yourselves. We’ve got enough firearms for a small army, I can help you with that, but I can’t look after you.”

  “What—”

  “You heard me. How the fuck can I make myself clearer?” I disconnect, realizing my hands are shaking.

  I pace the waiting area back and forth. People come and go. Dustin calls and reports back regularly, asks if I know anything. He’s known Ivan for a long time as well.
Nathan calls and tells me Christian is in a medically induced coma at Mount Sinai in New York and that it’s bad. I feel as if I’m about to implode. This impotent feeling of not being able to act kills me. If Ivan lives or dies–and that it’s out of my hands–makes me want to tear down the hospital, brick by brick. If they don’t save him, I’ll fucking do that.

  If Ivan dies.

  If Christian dies.

  I can’t breathe.

  Looking at Eric, I see the same mute fear on his face and how it turns to resolve. He stands abruptly. “I can’t just sit here. I’ll go back and start planning for wiping these Russian motherfuckers off the face of the Earth. We’ve got good men there, but they need you or me. They need a leader.”

  He stands stiff, awaiting my response, and I walk up to him, giving him a hug, slapping his back. “I trust you.”

  “Do you want me to call in your old hitman Roarke Brennan? The mercs?”

  I throw up my hands. “If you can reach him. I don’t think we parted in bad blood. Get everyone onboard. We need every fucking psychopath killer on the globe on our side right now.”

  Eric nods and leaves without another word and I’m left alone, feeling as if the weight of the world has fallen upon me.

  I’ve been alone in the waiting room for a long while when the glass door at the far end opens and a scrub-clad woman in her mid-thirties exits the closed off area. I stand as she walks up to me. She looks too young. I want someone who knows what they’re talking about.

  “Are you Mr. Sokolov’s friend?”

  “I’m—” What the fuck am I? “Yes! How is he?”

  “I’m Doctor Marin. I’m the resident trauma surgeon. We’ve been working on stabilizing his condition. He went into cardiac arrest twice.”

  “How. The fuck. Is he?” I growl.

  Instead of the fear I would have expected, her tired green eyes turn compassionate. “Your friend is being wheeled to the ICU. We’re optimistic about the outcome, even though I can’t make any guarantees. He was badly injured.”

  I deflate as I realize how tired I am. Staggering backward, I sit when I hit a chair with the back of my legs. “But he’ll make it, though? When can I see him?”