I watch her turn toward Henry with the weapon raised, arm steady despite everything.
His eyes widen. "Roxy, no. Please. I love you. I've always loved you. Everything I did was for—"
Roxanne empties the entire clip into the man before us.
The sound is deafening in the confined space. Each shot echoes, reverberates. His body jerks with each impact, blood blooming across his chest, his stomach, his throat. By the time the slide locks back, he's gone. Eyes still open, staring at nothing.
"For you, Mom," she murmurs softly into the ringing silence.
For a few moments, she just stares at Henry's body and all the blood pooling beneath him, spreading across the concrete in a dark puddle. Her hand doesn't shake. Her breathing stays even. Then she sets the gun on the table beside her with a soft click.
She turns to me, and I see it. Not guilt. Not horror. Just pure relief.
"Let's get out of here," she says quietly.
I take Roxanne's hand and lead her up the stairs, out of that basement that smells like blood and death. When we reach the top of the stairs, stepping into the fresh air of the main floor, I ask, "What did you whisper to him?"
I would've expected to see her haunted, to see her affected by what she'd done. Shaking, pale, struggling with the weight of taking a life. But I forget this woman has danced with bloody shadows her entire life. She's survived things that would have broken anyone else.
"That I hope wherever he ends up, he sees me every single day," she says, her voice calm and clear.
I frown at her, trying to understand, so she continues.
"I told him he'd die knowing that every night I scream your name in pleasure. Knowing that the only man who knows every inch of my skin and every corner of my soul is you. And that he disgusts me." Her voice hardens. "His voice disgusts me. His touch, his obsession, every single thing he ever did in his pathetic existence disgusts me. That he was nothing. That he'll always be nothing."
No wonder he lost his mind.
Without waiting for any signal from her, without asking permission, I scoop her up in my arms and carry her toward the bedroom, where I intend to fulfill the promise she made to that bastard. I'll make sure that every night she screams my name,that I kiss every particle of her skin and soul, and that I chase away those shadows from her eyes that sometimes steal her sparkle.
Because now that this bastard is dead, now that the ghost of her past is finally buried, she has every reason to shine again.
And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure she does.
Chapter 60
Roxy
The main room at Red Poppy feels smaller with twelve men crowded around the center table. Cigar smoke hangs in the air, mixing with expensive cologne and the faint metallic scent of tension.
My engagement ring spins around my finger. Once, twice, three times. The weight of it grounds me, reminds me I have a right to be here. Today's vote is supposed to be a formality, but my pulse hammers anyway, a frantic rhythm against my throat.
Vasili's hand settles on my elbow from behind, warm and steady. A silent reminder that I'm not alone in this room full of predators.
"Breathe," he murmurs, voice so low only I can hear.
I force air into my lungs and lock eyes with Damien at the head of the table. He's dressed down today, deliberately casual in a black T-shirt stretched across his chest, leather jacket hanging open, dark jeans that hug his thighs. That silver hoop in his ear catches the light when he shifts. He doesn't ask for authority in this room, doesn't demand it. It just fucking bleeds from him, radiates outward until everyone feels the weight of it.
"Gentlemen, time to vote." His voice cuts through the murmur of conversation. "All in favor of confirming my position as head of the Polish Council, hands up."
The hands don't shoot up in unison like I expected. They rise slowly, deliberately, each man making a choice visible to everyone else in the room.
I count them as they appear. Ten. My chest tightens.
Two men keep their arms down. Both pushing fifty, suits pressed and expensive, gray hair slicked back with too much product. The shorter one's built like a bulldog, thick neck and barrel chest. The other one is as big as a tank. He looks like he could bench-press a car without breaking a sweat.
Tank Guy speaks first, his voice carrying across the table. "Word is Marzena's still breathing."
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. I'd asked Damien about her days ago. He'd promised she'd stay locked up until he decided otherwise, then warned me not to ask for details. Something aboutneeding tissue to regeneratebefore he could continue. So, like a good wife, I hadn't pushed.
