I thanked him before hanging up.
Sasha was sleeping when I knocked on his door, but opened it groggily a minute later. Behind him, a woman I’d never seen was sprawled in his bed asleep. A common occurrence.
“Come on,” I grunted and he was dressed and ready within two minutes, no explanation needed.
“You look like a demon,” he’d said when he met me in the car, and I gave no response.
Now Johnathan Davini whimpers before me, scared and bloodied. I’m filled with supreme loathing, beating him hasn’t made me feel better—violence rarely does—but I am less murderous than I was two hours ago, which isn’t nothing.
“I swear I won’t touch her again,” he cries. “Not even at the fights.”
My eyes narrow at this. I glance over my shoulder at Sasha who shrugs like he’s not all that surprised to hear my wife still fights for sport. I knew Marianna used to fight—in fact, one of the first times I saw her after her father died, she was twenty-twoand knocking out men twice her size in an underground ring. I, foolishly, believed she was beyond those events now.
“If I find out again that you had the chance to protect her and so much as hesitated, I’ll call your father and make him understand why your death was a slow one.”
Him trying to pick a fight with her is almost less infuriating than him hiding when shit hit the fan. Cowardice of that level is not something I can forgive, especially since it could’ve gotten my wife killed.
“She was nice not to kill you.” I spit on him, he whines like a sad dog. “Next time I won’t be,” I promise.
I accept the strip of cloth from Sasha, wrapping it around my fist as we stride out of the room. There is only one place I want to be now that this is taken care of, and I cannot get there quickly enough.
“Feel better?” Sasha asks.
“Not really,” I say. Impromptu beatings in the middle of the night are far from my usual, but Sasha only wears a knowing smirk as we exit the club. He might have beat the man himself if I told him what happened.
The image of Marianna’s eyes filled with tears is seared in my mind, her cheek swelling and already purple.
In general, I try to keep a level head, and for the very most part, I can. I have a supreme determination to not give into the parts of my father that reside within me, and I haven’t slipped in a long time. It’s what makes me good.
My father was hot headed, volatile, and extremely violent. He wasn’t often stood against, because when he thought there was inkling of a threat, he cut it off at the head, usually by literally cutting off heads.
I am not afraid of killing my threats, especially when they get out of hand, but I make less enemies than he did; I’m more logical, thoughtful, and have more mercy than he ever did. I’ma good leader, like Vanessa is—people largelyliketo listen to us. Cillian Donovann was like my father, and I believe that’s where he failed.
It’s too soon to see how his brother will fare, but I anticipate great things from him.
Beating up Johnathan Davini wasn’t especially cool headed and will likely create a grudge between his family and mine, but the kid should have known better than to touch her. His father would understand if I explained it to him. He would probably punish the boy himself.
For this, I’m not worried about retaliation.
“How’s your little brawler look anyway?” Sasha says once we’re on the road.
“Looks like my mother used to,” I say, and understanding shoots over his face. My mother’s bruises were usually beneath her clothes, but toward the end of his life, some showed on her face more frequently. I thought he would kill her. I wasn’t ready to take over, but I knew I was out of time.
“The guys got Johnny dropped outside his place,” Sasha reports from a text as we pull into the parking garage. “Clean your hand good before you go to bed, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I agree. We’re quiet in the elevator to his floor and then to mine.
I shower the small remaining splatters of blood off of me, the hot water stinging the broken skin on my knuckle, but it’s not bleeding any more. A small split. I dress it after anyway, and slide into bed across from Marianna. Her mouth is slightly open as she sleeps, Greta tucked against the curve of her legs. The gel ice pack is lukewarm and discarded next to her, so I toss it off the side of the bed, and the movement wakes her.
“Maxim?” She blinks sleepily at me.
“Shh,” I soothe, and smooth my palm over her hair.
“What took you so long?” she asks, and threads her feet between my ankles. I don’t think she would do this if she weren’t half asleep, but I won’t push her away. “I had a bad dream.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I see it wasn’t real.”
