Mishca was already on edge when he arrived back at the manor. Though he had originally assumed it would take a week to handle his escalating problem with the Albanians, he was back early, not that it had been his choice.
Despite Mikhail agreeing that he should handle the issue, the Albanians were now encroaching on his territory as well which didn’t settle well with the Pakhan. Not only had they shot up Mishca’s club—bringing new heat from the Feds—but they had now stolen a shipment of guns and ammo from one of Mikhail’s contacts, an infraction that would be dealt with soon enough.
Mishca was exhausted, had barely slept in the three days he’d been apart from Lauren, but he had also had a nagging feeling in his gut, one that made him to make a spontaneous trip to the house to check on her.
It wasn’t that she had complained to him, in fact her texts to him were all relatively normal, but it was what wasn’t there that worried him. Vlad’s updates to him had been contradictory to what she had told him.
Walking into the house, with Luka close behind him, Mishca surveyed the guards that were station near the front door. They were set here by his father, and while they did usually drop their gaze from his in a sign of respect, this time he thought he saw something else there before they looked away.
Without questioning it—knowing they would lie to protect one of their own—he moved past them towards the voices he heard in the dining room.
Lyov was sitting at the table, a plate of food set in front of him. Since he thought himself in charge of the men here, they all flanked him like dogs to a bone as he spoke in a hushed tone, his words not loud enough for Mishca to make out, yet even the sound of their laughter grated on his nerves.
When they finally noticed Mishca and Luka’s presence, they fell silent, attempting to slip away, but Mishca raised his hand with a single command, “Stay.”
Even if he were not there—either he or Mikhail—there were two seats that were off limits to everyone. They were symbols. And the fact that Lyov would blatantly disrespect Mishca was the last strain on Mishca’s nerves.
Mishca pulled out the chair next to Lyov, plopping down with little care as he regarded the enforcer. It was hard not noticing the rising tension in the room, but no one spoke on it—or attempted to flee—just exchanging nervous glances.
Without looking behind him, Mishca said to Luka, “Bring Lauren to me.”
For a room full of killers and thieves, they could hardly hide their thoughts well…or their guilt. Mishca still hadn’t said anything to anyone, and Lyov had long since abandoned his food, sitting up straight in the chair, his hands on the table.
It wasn’t far to the room Lauren slept in and soon enough, he heard their feet echoing in the hall but Mishca was practiced with patience, and an uncanny knack for searching the expressions for a confirmation.
Out of his peripheral, he saw Luka and Lauren enter the room—Vlad coming behind them to block the door in case anyone tried to leave. When attention shifted to them, Mishca lipped the nine inch blade he kept in his vest pocket out. He kept his weapon out of eyesight, rubbing the tip of the blade against his pants leg.
The seat beside him was pulled out and Mishca could smell the faint fragrance of Lauren’s perfume as she sat. It lightened the red haze he was under, but enough that he would stop this particular demonstration.
Then, he saw what he was looking for.
Lyov tried to look down quickly, hiding his expression as he picked up his fork, pushing the food around on his plate, but Mishca didn’t miss it.
It was a twitch of his mouth, the slight mocking curl of his lip that told Mishca everything he needed to know.
Sighing, he looked to Lauren, seeing the confusion on her face as she watched him. He had once told her that this life was full of violence and he would do everything he could to keep it away from her, but she had to understand that sometimes it was necessary. And now? Now was one of those times.
“Forgive me,” he whispered to her and before he could watch the confusion in her face deepen, he lifted the blade in his hand and thrust it down into Lyov’s hand, twisting it mercilessly until the man cried out.
He then stood, knocking his chair back a he palmed the back of the enforcer’s head, shoving it down into the plate of food, not caring that the prongs of the fork were stabbing him in the face.
“I’ll explain this once,” Mishca said over his cries, speaking rapid Russian so Lauren wouldn’t understand. “If I hear of any of you treating her with less than the respect that she deserves, I won’t make your death painless. Head my fucking warning.”
He let go of the enforcer’s head so he could come up for air, grabbing his blade to yank out, the metal coming out in a spray of blood.
“Get out.”
The men scattered like mice, all except Lyov. He knew he hadn’t been dismissed yet, but he had enough initiative to stifle his cries.
Placing his own hands on the table, still clutching the bloody knife, Mishca said, “Apologize,” this time in English.
He mumbled something unintelligible, but quickly spoke up when Mishca raised his hand.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect to you,” he forced out between gritted teeth like that would be enough.
Mishca stabbed him in the other hand. If it were his pride he tried keeping, there would holes riddled all over his body before he left that table.
“Sorry!” He shouted, fighting past the pain to speak clearly.
Satisfied for the moment, Mishca jerked his knife free and sent the man on, sending Luka after him. The demonstration might have been over, but his punishment was just beginning.
With the room empty again, Mishca finally, truly, looked at Lauren, quickly scanning her to make sure she was okay, no longer trusting what she had told him. He didn’t know for sure whether it was fear that kept Lauren from telling him of the problem with (Name), but he needed her to know that she could tell him anything.
She was surprisingly silent and more surprisingly, she wasn’t looking at him as though she had never seen him before, a fact that he was currently grateful for since he had no idea when it would change.
He sat across from her this time, dropping the knife on the table to wipe his hand with one of the linen napkins resting there, the blood staining it. Her eyes drifted from it to him.
“Vlad told you?” She asked.
“If anyone bothers you, anyone, you tell me.”
“Is that what you’ll do?” She didn’t sound upset, just curious.
“Depends on the offense,” he answered evenly. Which, to both of them, mean if they did something to her?
“Why did you want me here?”
“So you would understand,” he said leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “I have always been worried that I would scare you away, and they took my precaution as a sign of weakness. I needed to show them how wrong they were, and I needed to show you that I would never allow anyone to harm you.”
This hadn’t just been punishment, but a declaration.
“I have a professor that’s being a pain in the ass about homework, is there like a special order for that?”
Lauren shot Mishca a quick message, letting him know she would be dropping by the club to pick up a textbook she left there. Since he was usually in his office overseeing the repairs, she figured she could ride back with him after he was done for the night.
She hadn’t seen much of him since the week she spent at his house and she knew that whatever was going on with Naomi had him stressing out, even when he tried not to show her.
Surprisingly though, his car wasn’t outside in the back parking lot, but a guard at the rear door, reaching for the handle as Lauren approached.
“Is Mishca here?”
“He will return soon.”
The man had a weird look when he said that, but Lauren didn’t have time to question it. She went up to the office, rooting around in search of her book. She found it in the bottom drawer of his desk. Grabbing it,
something clattered to the bottom.
It was a gold and white iPhone, very similar to the one Naomi carried. It had to be a coincidence, however, there was no reason for him to have her phone unless…unless they were together right now.
A sharp noise sounded downstairs. Assuming it was the guard, Lauren ignored it, grabbing her phone to call Mishca.
When he didn’t answer this time, she left him a voicemail. “Mish, when you get this, call me. I’m at the club and—”
“Look who it is.”
Lauren dropped the phone, turning to face the man that had come into the restaurant with Jetmir. He was in black, wearing heavy looking black boots, and black ski mask. Except, it wasn’t really needed. She remembered his voice.
“What are you doing here?”
“I hoped to find the thief. This is where I tracked her phone to.”
She was right. It was Naomi’s phone. “What do you want with her?” She had to play dumb, not give anything away.
“Let me worry about that.”
Squaring her shoulders, Lauren said, “She’s not here.” She might have despised Naomi with every fiber of her being, but she wasn’t going to help any of them find her. She looked past him, expecting Pete to appear at any moment.
“The guard will not be helping you.”
It was then that Lauren noticed the gun in his gloved hand. That hadn’t been a random noise she’d heard, but a gunshot.
Her eyes shifted from him to her phone on the ground, the screen lighting up, Mishca’s name appearing.
“No, no.” With the gun trained on her, he stomped on the phone, shattering the glass face.
“He knows where I am,” Lauren said boldly, taking a step back. “He’ll be here at any moment.”
“Doesn’t matter. Still plenty of time to do what I want.”
He grabbed her with his free hand, slinging her to the floor. The office had yet to be renovated since the shooting and there was still pieces of glass on the floor. He came down on top of her, but she grabbed a large shard tightly in one hand, slashing at him.
He howled in pain, a line of blood appearing on his face. He growled words she didn’t understand, snatching her only weapon away, searing pain sparking to life in her palm. Drawing both knees to her chest, she used both feet to kick him in the chest, knocking him off balance, the gun falling from his hands.
Lauren scrambled out from under him, crawling towards the gun, adrenaline making her movements jerky.
A heated palm slapped down on her calf as he started hauling her back, her fingers just inches from the gun. She fought with everything she had, but he was far stronger and bigger than she was, and her strength was waning.
“No, no, no,” she kept saying the word over and over again, making him laugh harder as he easily overpowered her.
“Can’t help you now, can they?” He taunted as he wrenched the down underwear her legs, as far as they would go with the limited space between them.
She couldn’t see. She couldn’t think. She could hardly breathe.
But the more he taunted her, the more she heard Viktor’s voice as he said that damning phrase, Ivan as he callously spoke about her father’s death.
It all came rushing back.
A surge of strength filled her, enough for her to lurch up and bite his ear. She didn’t give until she tasted blood, rearing back with the torn flesh, spitting it out as he fell backwards, reaching for his wounded ear.
Scrambling backwards, she finally grabbed the gun and pointed it at him.
Her hands were trembling, furious tears burning her eyes, but she refused to look away from him.
“You won’t shoot me, you stupid whore.”
She could have stopped there, could have grabbed Naomi’s phone and called the police, because after all, she had the gun now.
Then, she remembered she was not dealing with ordinary men. People like him bought the police to stay out of prison, hired six figure corrupt lawyers to drag the case on, and people like him would never stop.
People like Mikhail.
People like Viktor.
People like Mishca.
She pulled the trigger.
She had been aiming for his head, but managed to catch him in the neck, the recoil sending her flying back a few steps. Blood sprayed everywhere, getting on Lauren’s clothes and skin, and as the heated liquid hit her bare thighs, she thought of what he had been planning to do to her.
She fired again.
And again.
And again until the gun clicked. The longer she pulled the trigger, the more she sobbed.
She was still sobbing hen rapid footsteps carried men up the stairs, Mishca appearing first in the doorway, his eyes wide with horror as he took in the scene in front of him.
If she had not used every bullet to kill the Albanian, Mishca would have been shot as well.
Fear was such an ugly emotion, one that Mishca rarely felt. He had no need, but when he heard the voicemail Lauren left for him, and the unmistakable masculine voice in the background, the dark emotion that flooded him felt something akin to that.
He abandoned his task, breaking several traffic laws as he sped to his club, but they still hadn’t been in time.
“Otstupit’—Back off,” Mishca said so only they would hear though he doubted Lauren could hear anything at the moment.
She had the gun trained on him, though he had no fear. He’d heard the click of the glock and she was shaking so badly that she could hardly aim it correctly. She was covered in blood and her jeans were bunched at her ankles, sticky red liquid coating her thighs.
His heart beat faster.
Mishca had to stay calm, for her.
He called her name, waiting for a reaction, anything that would let him know she hadn’t checked out completely, but she didn’t respond to him, her mouth moving soundlessly. Tears spilled from her eyes, tracking down her cheeks. It broke his heart.
Calmly, Mishca held his hands up, palms out, trying to get her to focus only on him. Her expression brought a pang to his chest. It wasn’t the fear—he expected that—but she looked so broken, reminding him why this life was too much for someone like her.
He carefully took a step towards her, touching the top of the gun, lowering it before taking it from her, tucking it into the waistband of his pants.
“Lauren, are you hurt?” He asked.
It took a moment for her to answer, but when she did, she shook her head no.
“Did he r—” the word caught in his throat as his eyes went to her bare legs again.
It was then, he felt it. The rapid flutter of his heart, the way his mouth went dry. He was terrified of her answer and more afraid for her.
She understood his question without him having to complete it, relief flooding him when she shook her head again.
Crouching down, he pulled her jeans up. There was nothing he could do about the blood for now. Picking her up, Mishca carried her down the stairs, Luka taking up the rear. It had been a strategic move, not just because they would move faster, but also to shield her view of the other body downstairs.
For once in his life, Luka had nothing smart to say a they got in the car and headed towards the safe house. There was no way for Mishca to get her to his apartment without raising any questions.
It was like she had checked out mentally. Her head rested in his lap, his fingers drifting over her hair. She didn’t speak the entire drive there and if it weren’t for his constant checking, he worried that she had passed out.
At the house, Mishca carried her in the house, directly into his bathroom.
He cut on the shower, trying to get the temperature right. Lauren made a noise that had him spinning around in worry. She was tearing at her clothes, not caring that she was hurting herself in the process.
“Lauren, stop!”
He reached for her hands, but she slapped him away, managing to yank her shirt off. She was crying, mumbling something that sounded like, ‘get it off.’
> It wasn’t the clothes she was trying to get off, but the blood coating her skin. Not knowing what else to do, Mishca hooked an arm around her waist, hauling her into the shower with him. His own clothes were soaked through in seconds, but he was too worried about her to give that much thought.
Mishca held her wrists with one hand to keep her immobile, using his other to rub at her skin, showing her as it washed off. “It’s okay,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s over.”
“I-I was looking for my book and I thought you were there…I tried calling but you didn’t answer.” She was looking at him, but he didn’t think she was actually seeing him.
“I didn’t…he was going to…I had to shoot him.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he promised, still holding her as the water rained down on them. It was his fault for putting her in harm’s way. “I’m sorry.”
But that would never be enough. She fell silent again, helping him pull off her jeans and undergarments. He was careful with her, washing her off thoroughly without making the act sexual. She didn’t need that right now.
Out again, he dried her off, dressing her in one of his shirts, leaving her on the bed as he went in search of a first aid kit. Finding it beneath the sink, he carried it back into the bedroom.
He carefully wiped her hand down with antiseptic, bandaging it as best he could. Shifting the covers back, he helped her in, going to change his own clothes before climbing in beside her, pulling her into his side. He rested his chin on top of her wet hair, rubbing soothing circles on her back.
From experience, he knew there was nothing he could say to make her feel better. Only thing he could do at this point was to keep her calm and hopefully she would be willing to talk about it when she was ready.
Several minutes passed as he listened for her breathing to even out. He wished he could read her thoughts, wondering whether or not his presence with her was helping at all. He wished he could do a number of things to make this better for her.
Mishca couldn’t help the pang of anxiety he felt at the thought of losing her all over again. As much as it pained him to admit, this wouldn’t be the last time something like this happened, that would just be wishful thinking, and he loved her too much to lie about the dangers she would face by being with him.
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