by Bethany-Kris
Viviana didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
“You know, you never did tell me what Nicoli wrote to you in that letter.”
“I don’t think he meant for you to know.”
Anton shrugged. “Maybe. Would you tell me if I asked, though?”
She ticked two of her fingers under his chin to make him look up again. “Maybe.”
“Was there anything important for me?” Anton asked.
Viviana’s grin grew, matching the one taking over his features as Anton watched their son. “He hoped you made me live.”
“Do I?”
Yeah, he really did. No one could do it better.
“Every single day of our life, Anton.”
About the Author
Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother of two very young sons, two cats, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her two boys under her feet, a spouse calling over his shoulder, and animals sitting by her side, she is nearly always writing something … when she can find the time.
Find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bethanykriswrites, on Twitter at BethanyKris, or on her blog at www.bethanykris.blogspot.com for the latest updates, new releases, giveaways, teasers, and more!
Coming Soon from Bethany-Kris
The Score
The Russian Guns, Book Three
Anton flinched, disgust filling him to the brim. This whole situation was horrible and he felt dirty with ten grimy fingers pointing straight at his guilty chest.
“Well, aside from firing her, there’s not much I can—”
Anton didn’t get to finish his sentence. A loud bang and shouted orders rang out in the downstairs of the club. The tinkling sounds of canisters popping along the empty floor echoed up to their spot. There was no denying what was happening downstairs.
“Fuck,” Ivan muttered.
Instantly, Anton was off his office chair, ignoring the gun he knew was in the desk, and the information of a shipment, never mind the laptop he should have tried to somehow destroy. No, instead, the only thing he could think of was the little boy on the floor with wide blue eyes and a terrified gaze, reaching for his father.
“Papa?” Demyan cried.
“Shhh, little man,” Anton whispered.
In his arms, he held his son tighter and turned his back to the door of the office. It seemed like only milliseconds, but his mind was running a million miles a minute. Anton couldn’t begin to understand why the officials would be raiding his club. His guys certainly hadn’t been given any indication and they’d all been pretty quiet.
Demyan’s shaking increased as the shouts down below became louder. “It’s okay, Demyan, it’s okay. Papa’s here.”
The sounds of a dozen or more pairs of boots pounding up the metal staircase ratcheted up Anton’s nerves.
“Anton …” Ivan started. “Anton, give me your son!”
The hardest thing Anton ever had to do, next to walking out of his house that morning knowing his wife’s heart was breaking, was hand his trembling, scared, and crying son off to another man. It was safer for Demyan, though.
No doubt, they weren’t there for Ivan.
Anton watched Ivan curl a fighting Demyan into his chest as he got to his knees on the floor and automatically put his hands behind his head. The less threatening he seemed at their entrance, the less likely they were to cause him harm, never mind his son seeing it.
“Demyan, it’s okay,” Anton repeated when the first kick to the door landed with a solid thump. The second and third only followed louder, harder. “Hide his face, Ivan!”
When the door finally broke, it wasn’t a second before Anton found himself face down on the floor, his son’s cries overtaking all other sounds. Cuffs tightened around his wrists to an almost painful point, but Anton refused to show it. A boot landed hard between his shoulder blades, keeping him pinned to the floor even though he wasn’t fighting.
“Papa!”
“Anton Daniil Avdonin, you’re under arrest for the murder of Sonny Carducci, Tatiana Belov, Sergei Belov …”