“Now, now. That is not a good choice, Mr. Gio. You should rethink your plan of action and find a better alternative.”
The blowtorch in his hand lowers an inch as confusion creases his perfect brow. “What did you say?”
“Hurting someone to get what you want may work in the short term but has long-term consequences. Remember to stopand take a deep breath when you’re angry or upset. That way, you can make good choices.”
In my mind, I picture him as little Manny, who tends to act out when he’s hungry. I’ve said these exact words to dozens of children when they hit or kick or bite to get their way. The familiarity of the phrases comforts me, grounding me in these moments of pure insanity.
Gio gapes, his face pinched. He appears genuinely baffled, as if I’ve started speaking in tongues.
The blowtorch dangles from his fingers, forgotten. “You think this is a game? You think a cute little speech will stop this?”
I rise slowly. The metal chair scrapes against concrete as I push it back. My back straightens. My chin lifts.
Without flinching, I meet his gaze.
The perky teacher disappears, replaced by the survivor.
Gio notices the shift, and genuine surprise breaks through his controlled demeanor. His hand, resting at his side, clenches into a tight, white-knuckled fist.
I’ve thrown him off script.
“I can’t lead you to any diamonds. Neither can Kolya. He did ask me about them, and we tried to find them but failed. He searched my house and my classroom, and they’re not there. Whatever or whoever told you I had them was either wrong or lied.”
Gio’s jaw tightens. He’s clearly not used to his threats falling flat.
He sets the blowtorch down.
When he studies me again, he sports another smirk, this one a little forced. “Your choice.”
Unwavering, even while screaming on the inside, I hold his gaze. I’m nine years old again, hiding under a porch while the world burns around me.
Outside, though, I am stone. I am steel. I’m the woman Kolya found beneath the glitter and rainbows.
A woman strong enough to survive.
Chapter 31
Kolya
By the time they arrive, I’ve cleaned up most of the blood. Not for appearances’ sake—these men have witnessed worse—but because I need to occupy my hands while my mind calculates plans, scenarios, contingencies.
A tarp covers the bodies stacked in the garage. The shop-vac is drying after a peroxide rinse. The fireplace cools after I burned all the evidence. The safe house reeks of bleach and copper, death and disinfectant.
The low rumble of engines outside reverberates through the broken front door. Four car doors slam, announcing the arrival of the cavalry.
Roman’s nephew, Alexei Kozlov, enters first, pushing through the splintered doorway without hesitation. His bright blue eyes immediately survey the wreckage. Overturned furniture, holes in the walls, dark stains from the explosion the bleach couldn’t quite erase. His gaze settles on me, noting the bandage on my head and stiff way I cradle my ribs.
“Chyort vozmi.” He runs a hand through his already disheveled curly brown hair. “You look like shit.”
Behind him, Kirill shifts sideways to fit his massive frame through the threshold. His steely blue-gray eyes mimic his chilly disposition.
Ivan Orlov follows, dressed impeccably as always, though an edge mars his normally pleasant expression. Of course, we’re not Vanya’s type or one of his marks, so he wastes none of his charm on us. If Chloe were here, though…
I grit my teeth. She’s not, but I plan to fix that.
Maxim Belov arrives last and slips in silently like a shadow, his stillness a little unnerving. While I appreciate his quiet, steady presence, I know he’s not happy about this situation.
“How many?” Kirill nudges a piece of broken glass with his boot. As bulky as he is, I’d expect him to make a mess, yet the shards don’t even snag on his bootlaces.
