“Shewillbe mine!” His knuckles crashed against my lip, splitting it.
“Never!” I slammed my forehead against his.
Nose cracked, blood sprayed from Lorenzo.
He laughed, laughed through it. The sick bastard. His fist landed on my cheekbone, hot shock blinding me for a second. But I shifted weight, rolled us, pinning him beneath me.
He wriggled, slippery with sweat and blood, snarling like an animal. His hand darted for a fallen pistol—an emptyclick.He was out.
It came down to this. Him. Me. Bare hands.
He drove his knee into my gut. I grunted, hammering my elbows into his jaw. Once. Twice. His head snapped back. Still, he came at me, teeth bared, spittle flying. His fingers clawed my throat.
I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Training and fury fused into instinct. I twisted, shoved the rope back around his neck, my forearms locked like iron. I pulled. Harder. Harder.
He thrashed, fists raining wild blows against my head and shoulders. I tightened. Every ounce of strength in me poured into it. His face reddened, purpled. His movements slowed.
Then—stilled.
I didn’t release. Not until the monster who had haunted Natasha drew his last breath.
The rope slackened. My chest heaved. My mouth pooled with blood, vision spinning. My knuckles were raw. My body was wrecked. But she was alive.
And she was watching. I had killed for her.
57
SIMONA
“Hey!”I bolted up the path, screaming to remove the attention from my father, who crouched opposite a Range Rover. The windows smashed above him. He was jamming a magazine into his gun when he andDyadyaVassili spotted me.
The bullets stopped.
“Take me!” I shouted.
My father glared at me, the look darker than night as I lifted my hands. I did a circle in the nippy air, my stilettos sauntering straight through smeared blood.
“And me …” came a faintly Scottish shout from the distance.
Chyort. I glanced back. Jake sprinted toward me, blinking as if he hadn’t thought this through.
Muttering curses, I pinched the bridge of my nose. He was supposed to stay in the car and ring his father. The same father who finally resembled a vicious Scot when he phoned us during our drive. Big Brody had gotten word from Lachlan over an hour ago—prepare the clan. Although armed, they lacked a destination.
We’d promised to fix this slaughterhouse—one river of blood, instead of two—before they arrived.
But bywe, I’d meantme.
I’d fix this.
Unable to rely on Baran in his grief, I’d given Vassilievich an assignment: dig into Lorenzo Ferri’s family history. Find a connection. Vass had been committed to watching Mia and persuaded another classmate to take on the assignment. The student had uncovered much, including Lorenzo’s mother’s past mental illness.
He’d learned that Lorenzo’s biological father had beaten her in a rage after watching a UFC match, featuring Vassili and Louis Gotti. He’d lost money betting on the fight, and she’d paid the price with bruises and preterm labor. That incident had resulted in his father’s imprisonment, even though she had not wanted to press charges many times before.
Vass’s classmate also found that Lorenzo’s mother had almost lost custody of him when he was two for medication noncompliance. And there was a trail of Child Protective Services cases, abuse and neglect, but it appeared that Lorenzo’s mom fled from state to state, evading accountability, and had plenty of time to fill the eight-year-old’s head with more lies before her suicide.
I needed to update everyone as quickly as possible. Just then, the door opened. Weapons snapped in our direction. At my side, Jake’s hand found mine and refused to let go.
“What are you doing, Baby MacKenzie?” I whispered.
