I have to do something. They’ll kill him if I don’t. But my legs are rooted to the spot in terror. Whatever else I’ve faced in my life, however many horrible nights dealing with dad’s drunk outbursts or fending off handsy customers, I have never faced something like this.
Death, coming in hot.
“Bad move, my man,” Tristan grins. “Let’s see just how far we can make you spew that stomach full of beer.”
“It’s bourbon,khuy.”
I don’t have to look up Maverick’s slang to know he just called Tristan a dick. I also don’t want to watch what is about to happen.
Luckily, as it turns out, I don’t have to.
The door slams open again. Ransome marches out in a powerful blur, grabbing Tristan right before his fist can make contact with Maverick’s gut.
Ransome spins him around so fast it disorients him and hits him square in the jaw, hard enough to take Tristan to the ground. In the meantime, Maverick manages to break free. He’s ready to go after Daniil, who’s already in fighting stance, but Ransome shouts at both of them.
“Enough!” His voice echoes in the alley. “This is not the place!”
Before they can react, Ransome turns to me.
Next thing I know, Ivan is pulling up and Ransome is ripping the back door open and lifting me inside.
He slams the door and rounds to the other side, getting in. Then he buckles his seatbelt and taps on Ivan’s chair.
We drive back to the pent house in silence. He’s too angry to speak, and I’m too scared.
Because, for the first time, I’ve realized just how out of my depth I am.
27
AMARA
“Fuck me.”
The words that come out of Ransome’s mouth are words I have had fantasies about. Wet dreams about.
But in this context, they aren’t so sexy. In this context, Ransome’s hand is swollen and bleeding from making contact with Tristan’s teeth. From the looks of it, it might be broken.
“Do you think you should go to the hospital?” I ask, watching as he shoves his hand under the penthouse faucet while fumbling with his left hand to open a package of gauze.
“No,” he snaps. It’s a tone that would usually intimidate me, but right now, I’m annoyed.
“Let me help.” Before he can protest, I grab the gauze from him.
“Why do you have a tone?”
“Because you do! And because you took me to that stupid party,” I say between ripping a strip of gauze with my teeth, “and because you made me walk in by myself into a room of peoplewho obviously hate me,” I rip another strip, “and then you paraded me around the dance floor in front of those people. And then!” I rip the last strip before digging through his first-aid kit for antiseptic, though I don’t see any. “You kissed me. Way to hammer the final nail into my coffin. I assume it’ll be a closed-casket funeral.”
“You’re being fucking dramatic.”
He shuts off the faucet and pats his hand dry with a paper towel. I grab a bottle of vodka out of the cabinet and pull the cork out, tossing it across the counter just fordramaticemphasis.
It also fucks with his OCD, which is kind of fucking hilarious right now. “Did you know that I was verbally assaulted by not one, but two Chadovichs tonight?”
His face turns serious. “What?”
“Oh, yeah. Not only do the Rozanovs disapprove of me, but thanks to your little stunt, now the other half of NYC’s Bratva officially hates me too.” I give him a mock bow. “Hence, closed casket.”
For a long moment, he remains silent. Then, “What’s with the bottle?” he nods over at me. “I thought you didn’t like vodka.”
