by Nicole Fox
I will be there for my child and her mother. I will kill any man that tries to hurt them. I will protect them. Always.
But, first, we have to get out of this alive.
I silently urge Jamie to get to safety. I don’t care about my own life. That was true before. But, now, it’s an imperative. Because if Jamie gets killed trying to free me … I don’t think I’ll be able to come back from that.
If her bravery, her loyalty, costs the life of our child …
I find myself staring at Cormac and Declan and Timofey. Imagining all the vicious ways I could end their lives if I was just free of these chains for a short while. But, no matter how hard Jamie tries to get over here without anybody noticing, she can’t. There is always a crowd around me, ogling. A bunch of Irishmen and women. Clucking, hemming, hawing.
They’d scatter if I was free, though. Running like cowards, they’d learn what happens when you get too close to the fucking Beast.
Finally, Timofey approaches me. He fiddles with his horn-rimmed glasses. In the bright lights, his comb-over is shiny. He’s clearly had too much to drink. It has made him bold. He gets close, speaking in low Russian. “I don’t enjoy seeing you like this, Andrei.”
I want to tell him, You sound pathetic, whispering so the Irish won’t hear you speaking our language. But, of course, I can’t.
“But you brought it on yourself. You have to understand that. There was no other way this could go, the shit you were pulling with Cormac. Talking down to him, disrespecting him. Yeah, I know, that deal … you were right about that. That deal was a trick. But why did you have to disrespect him to his face? We could’ve handled it with tact. We could’ve been at this party tonight, together, as guests, with some other poor bastard wearing that stupid mask. I heard them talking about how it was altered so you can’t breathe.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Why would you let that happen to yourself?”
In truth, the mask hasn’t been altered. But it doesn’t matter. The gag is making it hard enough to breathe as it is.
I hate his tone. It’s pitying and self-congratulatory, as though he’s better than me for the way things have gone. I suppose, in his eyes, he is. But he doesn’t know what’s coming. He doesn’t know how this is going to end.
With a bullet in his head. Or a knife in his gut. Or my hands around his neck.
“Whatever happens tonight,” he says, “just know this, friend: you brought it on yourself.”
I could say the same to him. Behind him, I see it happen so clearly. It’s absurd to me that nobody else notices it. But nobody is specifically watching the servers.
As a single shadowy unit, they back away to the edge of the room. They pick up whatever weapons they can find.
Champagne classes.
Serving trays.
An ice pick for the big block of ice used in the whiskeys.
Jamie notices it, too. She quickly rushes across the room toward me, a determined look in her eyes.
I strain against my bindings. I roar as loud as the gag will let me. But she doesn’t hear.
Timofey thinks I’m roaring at him. He grins. As though he likes it.
“I know,” he mutters. “But you brought this on your—”
“Argh, fuck!” Across the room, Jerry cries when the ice pick thuds into his skull. He turns dumbly, pawing at it, as a server snatches his gun from the holster.
And then, all hell breaks loose.
The Minotaur mask is incredibly high quality. It’s weighty. The horns sticking out are not hollow, flimsy things. They’re solid. Perhaps they’re made of real bone.
All I know is that they’re rock-hard and sharp as knives.
So when I headbutt Timofey as hard as I can, one of them drives through his cheek, tearing flesh. He screams, pawing at his face. I headbutt him again, this time harder. He flies right off his feet, landing on his back.
All around the room, women are screaming and running.
The servers ignore them and focus on the Irishmen. I see an exchange between a server and a wide-bellied Irishman with a green tie, still gripping his cigar with his teeth when the metal tray catches him in the jaw. It crushes the cigar. The tray splatters red.
Then Declan is roaring. “It’s a fucking rescue!” he cries. “Get Bakhtin! Get the fucking Russian!”
He pulls out his pistol and fires. Fuck.
Hot pain moves through my belly. Blood seeps down my legs. I feel it between my toes. Another shot catches me in the shoulder, sending me flying back. Then, two servers are on Declan, wrestling.
The pain burns through me. I strain at the chains, but they’re too tough. I can’t break free.
Please, let Jamie be somewhere safe.
But, in horror, I look down to see her crawling across the room. She has the key ring clutched in her teeth. She has never looked fiercer. And I have never been angrier.
I want her to just go, forget about me. But I know she can’t. Just like I wouldn’t be able to forget about her.
Where the fuck is Garret?
But then I see.
One of the servers has him shoved up against the wall, punching him in the face. Garret is trying to explain himself as they grapple. But, predictably, the server doesn’t believe that he’s an ally.
Jamie stops near my feet, fiddling with the chains around my ankles. I angle myself, giving her better access.
On the other side of the room, Declan has executed one server. Bleeding from a hole in his arm he hardly seems to notice, he spins around and bites into the other’s neck. He fights like I expected him to. Viciously. Meanly.
Not that I can blame him for that. A fight is a fight. A man does what he must to survive.
Jamie then crawls between my legs, fiddling with my handcuffs. I go stiff when I spot Timofey moving toward me. His cheek is a tattered mess. “Fuck you!” he cries, taking out his pistol. “Look down on me! Attack me! You brought this on yourself!”
One of the servers spins, spots him. He leaps at him. But not in time.
Timofey’s bullet catches me in the shoulder, almost in the exact same spot as Declan’s bullet. The pain doubles. I feel faint, my already blurry vision getting more distorted.
“Hang on,” Jamie calls. Click.
My cuffs fall loose.
Finally, I am fucking free.
Timofey lets out a whine when I throw myself at him. He tries to fire again. But I grab his wrist and snap it like it’s made of cardboard. Even bleeding, beaten, and weak, I handle this man like he’s a child.
I pick him up, gripping his neck and legs, and throw him at the wall as hard as I can. And he crumples, sliding to the ground like a broken bird. I run at him, kicking him in the head. His face crushes. His head snaps back. His skull cracks against the wall and splits open.
When he’s dead, I spit on him, shaking with pent-up rage.
In Russian, I say, “Traitors will never be forgiven.”
Then I quickly pick up his gun. I spin, finding Jamie. I grab Timofey’s corpse and drag it over to where she’s lying.
The air is thick with gunfire. “Jamie,” I command, praying that for once she sees fit to actually obey, “You need to hide under him. For now.”
“Let me fight,” she hisses. “Get me a gun!”
I don’t have time to see if she’ll do as I say. I turn, looking for a safe path for her out of here. The problem is, I’m a target for the Irish. Not a target. The target. Already, Declan is spitting in the face of the man whose throat he bit. He’s reeling back, aiming at me.
In Russian, I yell at the server still wrestling with Garret. It seems like a long time ago when I spotted him. But seconds become whole worlds in a fight. Time has slowed to a crawl. It’s good that chaos is my world.
“Let him go!” I bellow. “He’s with us!”
The server turns. A young man with a scar across his lip, he raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Me?” he asks in Russian.
“Yes, fucking you!”
Immediately,
he lets go of Garret and spins around. Within half a second, he has leapt at another Irishman. He wraps his arms around his throat, choking him.
“Garret!” I roar. “Help Jamie!”
I see that Cormac and Rafferty have tipped over tables in the corner of the room, surrounded by a contingent of Irishmen. Opposite them, those Russian servers who were able to steal guns have also tipped over tables. They fire at the enemy over a wasteland of shattered glass and corpses and wrestling men. Most women have already fled the room.
These are Mafia wives, well-trained.
But Jamie is not just a mindless, obedient robot. When Garret and I run over to where I left her, we find her with a gun in her hand. Aiming at Declan.
But her hands are shaking. She bites her bottom lip. Declan sees, sneers.
“Oh yeah,” he laughs. “Like you’d have the guts, you little slut—”
Jamie pulls the trigger. Her face hardens. She pulls it twice more. I’m surprised by how well she can fire a gun. She handles the recoil expertly, waiting for her sights to reset.
The first bullet smashes into Declan’s arm, causing him to spin. That’s what saves him. Sideways, the final two sail past him, thudding into the walls.
“Get her out of here,” I yell at Garret. “Now!”
With my good hand, I grab the gun from Jamie’s grip. Garret grabs her and drags her toward the side entrance. Jamie screams, pounding at his arms with her fists.
“Don’t leave Andrei here!” she cries. “He’s fucking bleeding, Garret! They’ll fucking kill him! Let go of me!”
I don’t have time to watch Garret drag her all the way across the room. Already, Declan and other Irishmen are firing at me. One of my arms is basically useless, with the two gunshots in the shoulder. My belly is almost numb now. The bleeding is slowing. So it’s not a gut wound, then. It must have hit me in the side.
I grab the first gun I can see and spin on instinct. Declan has recovered now. He aims at me.
The whole room pauses.
With the Russian servers behind me, and the Irish aiming at us, we’re at a stalemate. The air is thick with smoke and blood. Outside, I hear more gunfire. I’m guessing it’s Egor, storming the walls now that he’s heard the fighting start.
Declan grimaces. “So you turned that rat, Garret,” he growls. “I’d love to hear how you did that.”
“I’m afraid this is the end of the road for you,” I say.
Rafferty clears his throat. He’s bleeding from the arm, but he doesn’t show any signs of pain. I respect him for that.
“There must be some way out of this, Andrei,” he says. “Some deal we can make.”
“What?” Cormac snarls. “We’re going to kill these fucking—these—these—we’re going to fucking kill them!” He slams his hand on the table they’re hiding behind, too angry for clever threats. “And then we’re going to slaughter his Russian brothers.”
Rafferty looks at him in the first open show of disdain I’ve ever seen from him. “We’re beat, Cormac. Look around you.”
“A nasty trick,” Cormac spits bitterly. “Nothing more.”
“I’m not sure you’re going to want to make a deal with me, Rafferty,” I tell him. “I’m about to execute your rapist son.”
A siren begins to blare.
“The wall has been breached,” Rafferty mutters.
“And the gunfire has slowed down,” I note. “It seems Egor is making good progress.”
“Shit,” Cormac curses.
“Do you have to kill him?” Rafferty asks, sounding oddly calm.
“Dad?” Declan whines. He’s panting heavily from his arm wound, in stark contrast to his father. “What are you talking about? You’re not going to let him kill me!”
I meet Rafferty’s eye.
“He raped and abused the woman I love,” I say. “There is no other way. Cormac has to die, too. But you’re an intelligent man, Rafferty. You don’t want your entire Family to burn, which it will if this goes the way Cormac wants it to. So I make you this offer, right here, in front of these good Russian men and your own Irishmen. Put down your weapons and walk away, and we will make a deal. But Cormac and Declan have to die. Or else you all do.”
I almost stumble when my belly gives a violent twist. Wounds are like that. They do strange things at strange times. But I manage to stay upright.
Rafferty studies Declan. “Did you do it, son? Did you do what Andrei says you did?”
“Who cares?” Declan roars. “She’s a fucking whore!”
I sprint across the room. All around me, gunfire erupts at the sudden movement.
I don’t care. I hardly even feel it when yet another bullet skins off my thigh. The flesh burns distantly. But then I have my hands around Declan’s throat. I lift him off his feet and slam him to the ground.
I collapse on him, driving my knee into his belly, and squeeze as hard as I can. I crush his throat. I dig my thumbs into his flesh.
His eyes bulge.
And then he dies. Just like that, whimpering pathetically.
I stand up to find that the Russians have already pushed the Irish back. They huddle in the corner, defenseless.
“Stop!” I shout in Russian.
Not even sparing a glance at Declan, I walk across the room. More Irish lie dead. Rafferty has received another wound. He is wheezing, looking at Declan. But his expression is not one of simple sorrow. It’s more like regret. But not regret that he died. Regret that Declan was never the son he wanted.
Cormac is hiding behind the remaining Irish, whining like a scared kitten.
I hold out my hand. Wordlessly, a Russian hands me a gun.
“Give him to me,” I command. “Or you all die.”
It’s Rafferty who turns and grabs Cormac. The old man is stronger than he looks. He drags Cormac to the front of the small group and shoves him hard in the back. I blink away a sudden wavering sensation. My blood loss is catching up with me. I’m seeing double and am dangerously close to passing out.
But I have to finish this.
Rafferty sighs. “I told you not to try and trick him, Cormac. I said it was pointless. It’s your pride, always your fucking pride and your ego. Now look where it has landed us. You’re like a spoiled fucking child. Now, my son is dead. He was a sadist and he was a disappointment, but he was still my son. It’s your fault he’s dead, not Andrei’s.” He turns to the remaining Irish. “If anybody’s got a problem with giving Cormac to the Russians, and making me don of this Family, speak up now.”
Nobody does.
Rafferty shoves Cormac over to me. I nod. Russians run forward, grabbing him, shoving him to his knees.
I limp over to him. “Did you ever really love her, Cormac?” I whisper.
“Who? The girl? Jamie?” He snorts. “Maybe. In my own way. Otherwise, why’d I let her mess around with all that photography shit, eh? She ought to have been making heirs for this fucking Family. But there are things about Jamie you don’t know, Russian. Things about her mother you don’t know. I could never really love her, if you want the truth of it. But why does it matter? We both know what you’ve gotta do.”
“I thought you’d be more scared,” I admit, raising my gun.
He seems surprisingly calm. “There’s nothing I can fucking do now, is there?”
“No,” I answer. “There isn’t.”
I don’t feel good about pulling the trigger on Jamie’s father, no matter what he’s done to me and my Family. But that’s how this life works. It has to be done. Otherwise, nobody will ever accept Rafferty as their leader. Even if we sent him to Moscow as a prisoner, Irishmen wouldn’t forget.
Cormac falls limply. He lands dead on his face. I let my gun drop, stumbling.
Behind me, a door opens. Two Russian men are holding me up now. I can barely walk. But I feel a surge of strength when I see Egor stride into the room. Blood is streaked across his face and chest.
“Andrei, my brother!” he yells in Russian. “Quickly, the
boss is hurt! Where the fuck is the doctor? Men, move, move!”
I grin weakly as he jogs over to me. “What took you so long?”
He laughs, but then frowns when I turn away and start limping toward the door. “Where are you going?” he asks.
“I have to check on her,” I whisper. “I have to make sure she’s okay.”
I stumble, collapsing onto my hands and knees. It’s like a weight is pressing down between my shoulder blades. Which is strange, because my head feels light.
“I have to … Jamie … I have to tell her … I love her …”
But then my eyes shut. I fall forward, gasping.
Everything turns black.
26
Jamie
It’s been twelve hours since the craziness at the mansion—the sun is rising on the hospital waiting room—and it still feels like a dream.
Maybe that’s the lack of sleep, or maybe it’s the fact that Molly and Egor are holding hands as they sit across from me. Egor has washed his face, but his clothes are still streaked with blood.
Since the fight happened at our estate, and since our estate is out in the middle of nowhere, nobody heard. And since everybody involved was either Bratva or Family, nobody has contacted the police. The doctors, I’m guessing, have either been bribed or were already working for the Bratva. Because no police arrive, even when several men with gunshot wounds are rushed into the ER.
They won’t let me see Andrei.
They’re still operating on him, apparently, pulling pieces of a shattered bullet from his belly. It was a nasty stomach wound, Egor said. A gut shot.
“But Andrei is so tough, he probably thought it was just a flesh wound,” he said, sounding proud. “The boss is like that.”
I still find Egor and Molly’s relationship hard to believe, which I guess is hypocritical, considering.
“So it started as a trick,” I say accusingly, not wanting to wake Molly.
Egor nods, looking lovingly at her.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I knew that Andrei had sent me a message: lie low until June 12. Why that date, I wondered? I think it was the only date he could use at the time, without arousing suspicion. I thought about just lying low for a few days, trying a sooner date. But I couldn’t risk the small chance that Andrei had chosen that date on purpose.” He shrugs. “So I went to work. My plan was to threaten her.” He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “But … we started talking. Things spun out of control. And, before either of us knew it—”
