by Nicole Fox
I have a reason to continue fighting.
“I’ll do what I can, Artem,” she says.
And before I can say another word, the line goes dead.
42
Artem
I stride out of the room, and look towards the assembled men.
“Come on,” I tell them. We’re moving out.”
No one says a word. They take one look at my face and start rallying to follow my orders.
Kian approaches me as everyone gears up, his eyes flitting between my men and his.
“How confident are you of taking this compound?” he asks me.
“A hundred percent,” I answer.
He raises his eyebrows. “Any chance that math is wrong, mate?” he says with a grim chuckle.
I clap my hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done more than enough, Kian. You’re not under obligation to come with us. I won’t lie—I’d gladly take your assistance. But you don’t have to be here.”
The Irishman meets my gaze calmly. “Our don sent us here to follow you, Artem. And that is what we’ll do. Until you’ve killed that motherfucker who killed Cillian.”
I pause, looking at his face with new awareness. He has stark blue eyes and sandy brown hair. The cut of his face is similar to Ronan’s but it’s not an obvious characteristic.
“Kian,” I repeat. “Kian… O’Sullivan?”
He nods grimly. “Cillian’s younger brother,” he replies. “I was only a boy when he was… when he left.”
That means he must be in his early twenties now, but he looks older.
“Your father sent his heir down here for a mission that has a good chance of ending badly?” I ask.
Kian snorts. “He didn’t want me coming. I insisted.”
I clap my hand against his shoulder again. “Well, I appreciate you coming,” I tell him. “I know Cillian would have, too.”
Kian nods. I can tell he’s ready to get going.
So am I.
“Move out!” I yell.
My men and I head out towards the line of cars that are driving up now to collect the various teams.
The drive to the compound is laced with an underlying tension, but there’s also a certain muted fervor. I look around at my men, knowing that I have their loyalty and they have mine.
It’s the strongest weapon we have against Budimir.
When we approach the compound, I see a lone guard on the lookout post. He looks sweaty and unprepared and I realize that Svetlana’s intel was sound.
I’ve thrown a spanner in the works and Budimir is scrambling to get his shit together.
I don’t intend to give him much time to rally his men.
This is the perfect time to strike.
“Drive through the gate,” I order Adrik.
Adrik smiles and relays the command into his walkie-talkie. I see a second armored jeep drive up next to us.
A second later, both vehicles accelerate simultaneously and we race towards the black gate that closes off Stanislav’s compound.
The man at the post starts shooting useless rounds that bounce off of the reinforced windshield.
“Brace!” I command my men.
The combined force of both jeeps crash into the black gate. It thunders apart.
And we’re in.
A handful of Budimir’s men wait out on the lawn, guns in hand. They scatter as we plow forward, attempting to take cover.
My men roll down their windows and start firing.
We mow them down ruthlessly.
But I can see more troops amassing in the distance, near the garage where all my father’s prized vehicles were once housed.
We screech to a halt in the main front courtyard.
The moment we’re at the steps that lead up to the massive mansion, I signal to my men to get down.
I’m the first one out of the jeep.
I scale the steps three at a time until I’m the front door. Just before I reach them, the doors fly open and I’m faced with four armed soldiers.
Four against one—truly unfair odds.
For them.
I feint to the side and shoot twice. I hit both my targets and they drop to the floor instantly with new holes in their foreheads.
I stab the third in the throat and shove him into the fourth, then fire another pair of rounds into each of them.
The whole thing takes less than ten seconds.
I lead the charge into the mansion. My men fill in behind me, their weapons drawn and their faces alert.
“Fan out,” I signal to them.
I know that more men will soon be coming from every direction of the mansion, but I’m calm. Calmer than I’ve been since this day started.
Adrik roars and points up. More men on the balcony overhead.
“Take cover,” I yell, just as they open fire.
The soldier in front of me takes the brunt of the opening salvo and goes limp against me. I drag him to the side and jump for cover behind a large pillar. Two more of my men go down, and I catch a glimpse of Kian take deadly aim at one of the shooters.
He’s got talent. I realize in seeing him fight that he moves like Cillian.
“Hold your fire!” someone roars.
Frowning, I reload and glance out from the pillar.
The voice that’s silenced the shooting appears on the staircase.
He has a gun in hand, but both hands are raised up in surrender.
It’s Anton Yahontov.
I step out from behind the pillar, only a little so that my body still has coverage but I can be seen.
“Yahontov,” I breathe.
“Coming back to L.A. was a mistake,” he tells me. “He has spies everywhere. Until then, he thought you were dead.”
“I wasn’t planning on staying dead forever.”
“Yahontov,” one of the armed soldiers snarls, coming forward. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Warning him,” he replies. “And now he’s been warned. We have you surrounded, Artem. It’s time to put your guns down.”
But as he talks, I notice some of the soldiers at his back move imperceptibly. They slip behind their own men.
I sense in my gut what’s about to happen.
Fuck, I hope I’m right.
I don’t turn my eyes away. Just wait patiently. There’s a signal coming—I just don’t know what it is.
“It’s time to give up,” Yahontov intones.
And apparently, that’s the sign.
Half of Budimir’s men turn on the other half.
And they fire.
It’s brutal and sudden and quick.
It’s not a fight. It’s an execution.
Just like that, probably two dozen of Budimir’s men drop to the ground.
“Fuck,” I hear Adrik say. “What the fuck was that?”
I smile, stepping over a body as I walk towards Yahontov. I offer him my arm and he takes it.
“There is a contingent of men upstairs with Budimir,” Yahontov says. “About twenty, I’d say.”
“He’s here?” I say, my jaw setting with new excitement.
“He’s here and hiding,” Yahontov nods. “But he also has—”
“Your wife,” a sickeningly familiar voice snarls from the top of the staircase.
Before anyone can react, more gunfire lets loose. This time, it’s not good for us.
Yahontov’s men on the balcony go down in a hail of bullets.
The odds tilt back in Budimir’s favor.
And suddenly, our position starts looking a little grimmer.
43
Esme
The Kovalyov Family Compound—Los Angeles, California
“Stop fucking struggling, you little bitch!” the guard snarls at me. His hand is wrapped around my forearm in a vise-grip that I can’t shake.
Phoenix is struggling in my arms. He’s been crying for so long that I’m starting to get worried by the color in his cheeks.
All through the chaos at the café, the car ri
de here, the rough drag up the steps and into this mansion, he’s been crying.
I don’t blame him.
I feel like crying, too.
“My baby!” I say desperately. “He’s scared.”
“He’s a baby,” the idiot replies. “He doesn’t know shit.”
Then he shoves me into a large room off the hallway, follows me in, and slams the door behind me.
Phoenix throws his little fists in the air and screams with indignation as I stumble through into the room. I collapse into the first chair I see and press my son against my chest, trying to shush him, calm him, soothe him.
As I do, I glance around at the windows. They’re all either out of reach or barred outside with iron. No chance of escaping through there.
“Why am I being held here?” I demand.
I’m a lot more confident now that Eagle Tattoo is not here. He disappeared right after we arrived on the compound.
It’s a sprawling estate that reminds me of Papa’s in terms of size, if nothing else. Papa’s was white and linen and beachy—this place is dark, stone, foreboding.
Well, actually, they’re similar in another way—both places are impenetrable fortresses.
But Artem knows this place.
He’ll find us.
He’s save us.
I say that to myself again and again. I whisper it to Phoenix, too, and it seems to help somehow.
But doubt has planted itself inside my chest and made it difficult for me to breathe.
I glance at the guard who’s ushered me in here.
Maybe I can take him.
It’s just me and him…
If I hit him with something hard…
I may have a chance to escape.
But the idea of putting Phoenix down to take such a reckless gamble makes me want to gag.
And, seconds later, the choice is removed from my hands when the door opens and three more guards stride into the room.
They surround me. More men trying to intimidate me into silent submission. It’s been that way my whole life.
I’m fucking sick of it.
I ignore all of them and look down at my son.
I’m trying to be as calm as possible, because Phoenix is clearly reacting to the panic that’s wafting off of me.
But the fear of what the next few hours might hold is overwhelming.
“Well, gotta say, I heard she was pretty,” one guard says. “But didn’t realize how pretty.”
“Put your dick back in your pants, Cena,” another guy retorts. “She’s off limits.”
“Says who?”
“Someone has to say so? Budimir will cut off our fucking cocks if we touch her.”
“Yeah, sure, he will—if we touch her before he does. He won’t have a problem with what we do to her after.”
I sit there, and for the first time since I’ve left my father’s compound, I feel truly and completely invisible.
I am reduced back down to an object.
A thing to be used and discarded as it suits the whims of the men I’m surrounded by.
Even in the darkest days of our relationship, Artem had never treated me like an object or an ornament.
“Bet she has a nice, tight pussy.”
“Are you kidding me? Look at that little shit in her arms. He’s probably stretched her the fuck out.”
“Yeah, I hear pussy bounces back fast.”
“Fuck you all.” The words leave my mouth before I can think twice about them.
But even after they’re out, I realize I don’t regret saying them. Not even a bit.
I’ve taken enough shit from the cruel and ugly men in this underworld. I won’t do it anymore.
I look up and meet the gaze of all four men that surround me. Defiant. Proud. If I’m going to die here today, that’s how I want to do it.
“What did you say, bitch?” one of the men rasps in shock and anger.
I frown, realizing that he’s probably only a year or two older than I am. He’s so fucking young and it makes me sad.
So young, and yet he’s already twisted. Already broken. Already stained.
“I said, Fuck. You,” I enunciate. My words come out with jagged edges.
And fuck, it feels good to fight back.
Phoenix starts crying right on cue, and all four men wince away as though the sounds is actually hurting their ears.
“Shut him up.”
“He’s a baby.” I glare back at them. “All he knows is what he can feel and he feels unsafe. Please, just… find your humanity and let me go.”
They look at each other in disbelief, like the concept of “humanity” was utterly foreign.
One guy turns to me. He’s got blonde hair and dark eyes and a face that might have been beautiful if it hadn’t been so filled with contempt.
“And what do you think will happen to us if we do that?” he asks in complete sincerity. “You think Budimir will let us live?”
“He’s just a baby,” I say, feeling my anguish clog up my throat. “What has he got planned for my baby?”
“I wouldn’t worry about the kid,” he replies. “I’d worry about yourself.”
“I don’t care what happens to me.”
“You will when his cock is jammed down your throat.”
I set my jaw and look him right in the eye. “I hope he does. Because I bite.”
A twinkle sparks in his eyes and he smiles at me as though I’ve just won his respect.
“Now that’s something I’d pay to see,” he chuckles.
“Let me go,” I plead. “Please.”
“Maybe I will,” he says, leaning in closer.
There’s an encouraging spark in his eyes. Like, maybe “finding his humanity” isn’t such a reach after all…
Then he finishes, “If you blow me right now and promise not to bite.”
Any hope I had dies instantly.
He won’t let me go, no matter what I do for him.
None of them will risk their necks to save mine, or my son’s.
We’re on our own.
Except for Artem.
His name reverberates around inside my head like a prayer, but I can’t bring myself to really think about him.
What if I never see him again?
The thought scares me more than anything else has. Next to the fear I have for my son and what will happen to him.
“Well…” the blonde soldier says, leaning in and running his nose along my cheek. “What do you say? I promise I have a delicious cock. You’ll love sucking it.”
I slap his hand away as I stare daggers at him. Phoenix has just quieted down, but I can hear him start to whimper again, as though sensing that something is wrong.
“In your fucking dreams.”
“Bitch!” he snarls at me. “I’m gonna teach you some respect.”
He grabs a fistful of my hair and I gasp with pain as he twists my head back, forcing me to look up at his face.
Phoenix squirms and grasps at my shirt with shuddering cries as he prepares to scream.
“Please,” I say, even though the word hurts as it exits my mouth. “Please don’t.”
I cannot allow him to hurt me with my son in my arms. Holding onto my pride could cost my son everything. He is so helpless, so dependent on me for his safety.
So even though I hate myself for doing it—I have to beg for mercy.
“Say you’re sorry,” he orders.
I just stare at him, wondering if there’s any chance of me getting out of this unscathed.
It strikes me all of a sudden: I can leave with physical scars or with emotional ones.
I can leave with my son or without.
That’s the choice.
The answer seems simple when I think of it that way.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper immediately, and the words don’t hurt so much because the reason why I concede and say them at all is in my arms right now.
“I can’t hear you,” he seethes in my face.
/> He’s still holding my hair tight and I cringe against the pain. It feels like, if he pulls a little harder, he’ll tear off my scalp right along with my hair.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. Tears of pain blossom in the corners of my eyes.
But he’s not done.
“Do you like my face?” he muses, taking advantage of my new meekness.
I can barely hear him over Phoenix’s screaming.
“Shush, little bird,” I say to my son, rocking back and forth in the chair. “Cálmate. It’s okay, it’s okay…”
“Shut him the fuck up!” the blonde guard screams at me.
A tear falls down my cheek and lands right on Phoenix’s. He hiccups suddenly and looks at me with wide eyes as though shocked about the sensation of water on his cheek.
“I’m sorry, little bird,” I say to him. “I’m so sorry…”
I rock him back and forth even as the blonde soldier releases my hair for a moment.
I cringe down, but I don’t look at him.
I know what’s coming.
He grabs my hair again, but this time, he just wants clear access to my face. When he has it, he backhands me hard across the cheek.
Knuckle cracks against jaw.
My vision dissolves into flecks of white light like falling snow.
He rears back to swing again—when the door opens.
And the violence in the air suddenly shifts. The guard freezes, releases me. My vision starts to piece itself back together bit by bit.
I hear a voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
I thought I was saved.
I was so, so wrong.
When my sight finally resolves, I find myself looking at Eagle Tattoo’s broad, mashed-up face.
He’s not looking back at me, though. His fury is directed at the blonde man standing between us.
“I… I was teaching the bitch a lesson,” the guard tries to explain, but his tone falters.
“She’s not your bitch to teach,” Eagle Tattoo rumbles. “Now get out. The lot of you.”
The men hesitate and Eagle Tattoo glowers furiously at them.
“Get the fuck out of here before I blow your brains out!” he bellows. “My orders have come from Budimir himself.”