by Shandi Boyes
A glint flares through Roman’s eyes. It could be pride. It could be disgust. I honestly don’t know. “Okay. I’ll see what I can find out. While I do that…” he nudges his head to my men brawling in the living room like they won’t have each other’s back the next time we go to war. “… you can sort out that mess.”
He races for the door, leaving me defenseless to a large group of drunken, rage-fueled men. With how hot my blood is with anger, unlike the weeks after my sixteenth birthday, I’m looking forward to this challenge. A dog will look down when they’ve done wrong, but a snake will always look you in the eyes, even when he is the perpetrator.
Chapter Fourteen
Three busted eye sockets, one broken nose, and several sets of bloodied knuckles later, the fight Roman started finally comes to an end. My men have always been thirsty for conflict, but their edginess today reveals they can sense a storm on the horizon as well as me.
Things were volatile when Rico was killed, but it settled within a year, and it’s been virtually clear sailing since then. Although Vladimir has dabbled in some deals I’d prefer our sanction not be associated with, if it kept his focus off me, I happily turned a blind eye. Once the rightful order is restored, and the true king is returned to his throne, I’ll work toward returning the Popov entity to the glory it once was. That operation won’t include totem auctions and underage prostitution rings.
My eyes stray to the front door of Justine’s apartment when Roman enters it. I’m not shocked by the frustrated expression on his face, however, I am apprehensive about it. He has daughters, so he’s more empathetic to women than most men in my crew, but even if he wasn’t, the expression on his face tells me I’m not going to like what he’s unearthed the past thirty minutes.
I return Justine’s upended couch to its rightful spot before joining Roman in the foyer. My strides are as uneasy as the twisting of my stomach. When I reach him, he hands me a black tablet. “There’s no sound, but you don’t need it to get an idea of the event.”
I soothe the bile scorching my throat with a quick swallow before hitting play on the video. It commences with Justine and Dimitri walking into a moderate yet heavily guarded mansion. Although no date is cited, I’m certain it was before Justine was mauled by a dog, because not only are her shoulders high, she’s wearing a spaghetti strapped top. Excluding the times I’ve pulled her hemline away from her neck, I’ve yet to see the skin she hides with long-sleeved, high neckline shirts.
“Was this footage edited?” I ask Roman when Justine’s entrance of the Petretti compound is quickly chased by her exit only minutes later.
Roman shakes his head. “No. The timeline is correct.”
My mood shifts to dangerous when the frame jumps forward several minutes. I can’t see who is clutching Justine’s arm, but their hold is as violent as the fury that thunders through me when she’s shoved through a door at the end of a narrow staircase.
Excluding the spotlight of several camera phones, the room is almost pitch black. The poor lighting can’t take away from the inhumane act occurring. Justine isn’t just being terrorized by a dog trained to kill. She’s being taunted by the numerous spectators watching the event through protective glass.
I can’t see their faces, but I guarantee you every one of them will be dead by the end of the month. Their laughter will switch to howls when I remove their voice boxes from the slit I slash across their throats.
When the beast mauling Justine rips a chunk of flesh off her rib, she falls to her knees. Mercifully, her low position to the ground presents the perfect opportunity for her to protect her face and neck. The wrong strike to the jugular would have killed her—although I’m reasonably sure she would have been begging to die by this stage. Stab wounds with rusty knifes are immensely painful, so I can only imagine what it feels like to have your muscles shredded by the fangs of an animal.
“Who is he pleading to?” I ask Roman while pointing to the side of the screen that shows Justine’s brother, Maddox, kneeling at the heel of a man wearing black polished shoes.
Since there’s no sound, I can’t hear what Maddox is saying, but I’m confident he’s pleading. His eyes are wet, his lips are moving in quick concession, and he has the face of a man who’d murder to save his baby sister.
My jaw tightens when Roman says, “We don’t know. We scoured several angles of footage. It never shows who he is.”
“There’s more than one video?”
“Yes.” He licks his puffy black lips as he fights to ignore the furious tick in my jaw. “This was the less confronting of the half a dozen.”
Hate singes my veins. It is quickly followed by the warmth of vengeance. I told Justine she’d get her revenge. For the first time in my life, I plan to keep my promise.
I double-tap the screen, freezing it on the hand of the person Maddox is pleading to. Even with his face shadowed, I know he is a Petretti. The diamond and ruby ‘P’ ring on his right hand ensures I can’t be mistaken. They’re only given to direct descendants of the Petretti family. I was gifted mine last month. It was the reason for my confrontation with a Petretti crew member yesterday afternoon. Word is getting out about my true birthright quicker than I can silence the preachers, which has me wondering if the snitch is coming from my side of the battlefield.
Needing to end one war before I start another, under Roman’s watchful eye, I recommence the video. The ‘P’ ring is in frame from its owner granting permission for Maddox to enter the cage his sister is being brutalized in. He races to her in a nanosecond, rips the dog off her with the same viciousness the dog instilled to Justine the past ten minutes, then lifts her bloodied body into his arms.
That’s where the video ends. Frozen on the frame of a lifeless Justine being carried out of room coated in her blood. I’ve seen many sickening things in my life. I’ve taken lives—many of them—but this is by far the most horrendous thing I’ve ever seen. A bullet between the eyes is painless. A knife across the jugular causes a few seconds of pain. Justine’s punishment may have only lasted ten minutes, but the pain and humiliation associated with it will never end.
I know this from experience.
Just as I hand the tablet back to Roman, a commotion from the kitchen gains my attention. I could brush it off as Justine being feisty with the dishware like she was earlier, but my gut is cautioning me not to be stupid.
After instructing for Roman to find out who the owner of the ring is, I make my way to the kitchen. My speed increases when I hear three thumps in a row. It sounds like someone stomping their foot on the ground, just more in desperation than impatience.
When I break through the swinging door of the kitchen, the anger I’m barely containing reaches fever pitch. Justine is on her hands and knees crawling my way, and Sergei is holding his gushing nose together with his hand.
Although Justine isn’t injured like she was in the video I just watched, the fear in her eyes sends my blood pressure through the roof.
“Ahren?”
Before she can tell me what the fuck is going on, Sergei stands from his knelt position. “That whore kicked me in the face. I will slit her throat the instant I've finished fucking her.”
He stares Justine down, his gaze threatening. I hope he likes what he is seeing as her angelic face will be the last thing he’ll ever see.
“Or maybe I'll slit your throat first, then I will have another hole to penetrate.”
His words are as worthless as the man standing before her, but Justine doesn’t know that. She scampers behind me so she can use my thighs as a shield. The terrified expression on her face sends rage exploding through me, making me the most unhinged I’ve ever been.
“You’re dead!”
While charging for the man who is going to die a death more painful than a thousand, I remove my trusty knife from my back pocket. Sergei squeals a blood-curling scream when I draw a vibrant red streak across his throat. I could have taken him down with one slice, but I want his wails heard ac
ross Vegas, warning others what will happen if they dare to mess with Justine.
The scent of fresh blood streams into my nostrils when I fist Sergei’s sweat-drenched hair to yank his head back. He is on his knees like he was when I entered the kitchen, except now his hands are cradling the thin, yet life-threatening gash sliced from one ear to the next.
“посмотри на нее,” I sneer, my voice unrecognizable since its seared with revenge. “Her angelic face will be the last you’ll see when I send you to hell for touching what is mine.”
I yank his head back further, wanting him to witness what I’m witnessing, to see the fighter climbing out the trench, the angel set to expand her wings. He may have scared her, but she won’t stay down for long. Her wings will cocoon her until she’s ready to fly again—as will I—then she’ll emerge stronger than she was before. Not even watching me murder a man will hinder her metamorphous, because only cowards stay down when they fall. The strong do whatever it takes to live—even placing their own heads on the chopping block.
When the nib of my blade digs into the vein keeping Sergei’s brain alive, Roman shouts my name. He’s standing just left of Justine. His eyes are as wide and as terrified as they were when he handed me the tablet, but his fear is no longer solely focused on Justine. He’s petrified for me as well, aware of the punishment I’ll face just as much as he knows I’ve already made my decision.
Sergei is a dead man—nothing said or done will change that.
When Roman’s worldly eyes fail to subdue me, he uses words. “Think of the repercussions of this with your father. Sergei is family. He may not have the Popov name, but he has the blood.”
“I don’t care if he has the blood of a Popov, his disgrace will not be tolerated! You don’t disrespect me and not suffer the penance for your poor judgment.” Blood gurgles in Sergei’s throat when I yank his head back far enough his close-to-death eyes can lock with mine. “You were warned I’d slit your throat if you touched her. Unlike my brothers, my threats aren’t idle.”
I’m about to charge, sentence, and execute Sergei for his crimes when the faintest plea stops me. “Don’t.”
It didn’t come from Roman. It came from Justine, who’s slumped on the floor, shuddering through a massive surge of adrenaline and fear.
When I stare at her in shock, confused as to why she’s pleading with me to give Sergei a second chance when I’ve already given him many, she says, “Two wrongs won’t make a right.”
Realizing there’s only one person in this room capable of stopping me, Roman joins Justine’s campaign. “Listen to Justine, Nikolai. She doesn't want this.” He lowers his eyes to Justine. “Tell him this isn't what you want.”
When he nudges his head my way, Justine returns her eyes to mine. They’re still full of fear, but she’s no longer in fear for herself. She’s worried about me. “I don’t want this.” Her strength doesn’t surprise me, I saw it in her eyes in under a second, but what she says next sure does. “No woman is worth a fracture to the order, remember? You said that only an hour ago.”
My blood blackens, frustrated she took my comment as literal, but I’m also determined to show her differently. “He hurt you.”
Red waves topple down her shoulders when she shakes her head. “No, he didn’t. Look at me; I’m fine.”
There’s barely a scratch on her, but my mood is too hostile to realize that’s a good thing. “He touched what is mine.”
“I know,” Justine replies, unfazed by the possessiveness in my tone. “But I’m fine. Look at me, Nikolai. I am perfectly fine. Sergei is the only one injured.”
My focus shifts from the fading of Sergei’s pulse to Justine when her attempt to stand has her wobbling as much as Sergei’s knees. Roman’s hands shoot out to settle her sways, but since her emotions are still fueled by fear, she shrugs out of his hold.
“Ahren...”
As the color from her face drains, she mutters again, “I don’t want this.”
When she careens toward the floor, I thrust Sergei out of the way. I catch her in my arms, but the movements of her head are too fast to avoid a collision with the floor. Her right temple hits the tiles with a sickening bang, fracturing a muscle in my chest I was certain died years ago.
As I pull Justine into my chest, Roman orders for Trey and Viktor to remove Sergei from the kitchen. He’s not foolish. He knows this is his one and only chance to save Sergei from the wrath of my blade—for now.
He won’t be so lucky when Justine wakes.
“Get Dok.”
My men part like the red sea when I walk through the trashed living room with an unconscious Justine in my arms. They look a little lost, unsure if they are coming or going. I can’t blame them. I’m a little stumped as well. I’ve never had the urge to protect someone as I do Justine. In all honesty, the need riddles me with guilt.
When I was ordered to place a hit on Rico’s wife, I never stopped to evaluate what Rico would go through. I was too busy gauging what my punishment would be if I failed to follow through with Vladimir’s request. I was already struggling to hide my true birthright from those who’d use it against me, so the last thing I wanted was to be placed on any team that wasn’t Vladimir’s.
It was only after witnessing Vladimir’s lack of grief about Rico’s murder did my thoughts change. Your teammates aren’t your family. It’s the people who walk through gates of hell beside you as they trust you’re not dragging them there for no reason.
“What happened?” Dok asks, following me into Justine’s room.
I place Justine onto her mattress, cover her with a knitted blanket for modesty, then pivot around to face Dok. “She hit her head when she fell.”
When he steps toward Justine’s bed in preparation to assess her, I puff out my chest, wordlessly warning him about the fury he’ll face if he so much as causes her to whimper. My mood is so erratic, I can’t trust a single groan won’t have me snapping necks. Considering Dok is one of the rare good ones, I’d hate for him to endure the punishment I plan to finish issuing Sergei the instant I know Justine is okay.
Dok’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down, proving he heard my silent caution. “I doubt she is concussed, but if she is, rest is the best possible solution. Is she running a fever?”
I shake my head. When I carried her to her room, her body was minus the heat that blazes through it whenever I’m in her presence. It’s partly responsible for the spike in my pulse. I love the way she responds to my touch, but Sergei’s filthy motherfucking hands ruined that.
“Then let her rest. We will reconvene when she wakes…” Dok’s words trail off when Roman enters the room. He doesn’t say anything. He merely runs decoy with the hope Trey and Viktor can carry a slumped Sergei through the living room without incident.
“Is he dead?” The low hang of Sergei’s head has me hopeful.
Roman waits for the front door of Justine’s apartment to close with Sergei on the other side before shaking his head. He shouldn’t look so smug. A stay of execution only delays the courts order. It doesn’t overturn it.
“Hide him well, Roman, because his life will be the first I claim when she wakes.”
Ignoring Roman’s silent pledge for me to reconsider, I return my focus to Justine. I watch her like I did last night, shocked only twenty-four hours has passed since we met. I don’t know why I’m surprised. The longer you dance with the devil, the longer you remain in hell.
The same can be said for angels.
Chapter Fifteen
Roman holds Dok back when Justine groans approximately an hour later. As her hand shoots up to rub the bump her collision with the floor caused to her right temple, her eyes flutter open. They float around her room before they eventually stop on me. The pained expression on her face claws at my chest in a way I’ve never experienced. I don’t do attachments. Usually, I’m in and out in a matter of hours.
This is different.
Not only is the way she’s looking at me producing a
foreign sound from my chest, it also has me expressing emotions I was certain I was born without. I don’t just want to protect her and keep her safe. I want to give back the dignity she lost when she was mauled by a dog. I want to earn her respect without scaring it from her. But even more than that, I want to keep her forever.
An angel doesn’t belong in hell, but they’ve opened their doors once before, so who’s to say they won’t do it again?
Justine breathes nosily out of her nose when I scoot closer to her. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I have the respect of hundreds, and am feared by thousands, but I feel the most powerful I’ve ever felt when she mutters, “I know.”
When I cup her cheeks, a little vein in her neck works overtime. “How are you feeling?”
Not giving her the chance to reply, I brush away the curl covering the bump on her right temple so I can inspect it. She stills when her molten-red locks fall from her shoulders far enough the bite marks she referenced earlier today are exposed, but she knows better than hide them from me.
The skin stretched over the marble-sized lump is faint purple in color; however, it didn’t crack under the pressure. Its flat appearance has me skeptical it’s the sole cause of her unconsciousness. A lagging sleep schedule may also be at play. She looks more tired now than she did last night, which is understandable. Fighting off a man double your size is exhausting no matter how strong your will.
I also know this from experience.
My words are gravelly when I ask, “Does your head hurt?”
Justine takes a moment to comply a response before shaking her head. I don’t need a doctorate in medicine to know a knock to the head isn’t responsible for her delay. She’s speechless because my hands are on her. I like that even more than the way the fear in her eyes subsides the longer I sit across from her, stroking her cheeks.