I don’t wait for a response. I stalk off, pulse pounding in my ears. Need to get my shit together.
I spare a glance at Kuznetsov’s couch. Empty.Fuck.
I scan the room, trying to spot him. But the crowd’s getting thicker, restless. Looks like the auction is about to start.
The wooden doors from earlier are closed now, flanked by even more goons. Armed to the teeth.
I count at least thirty, maybe forty. Mounds of muscle, no neck.Shit.
I’m debating my next move when I feel it. That prickle on the back of my neck. I’m being watched.
I turn slowly, already knowing what I’ll find.
Yup. The handsy prick from before, pushing through the throng. Heading right for me. And he looks pissed.
Great. Just what I needed.
I weigh my options. Can’t afford another scene. But I’ll be damned if I let this fuck intimidate me.
I spot a dark hallway, probably for staff. I duck into the shadows, finding myself in a private restroom. Mirrors line the walls, top to bottom. The door is a deep, rich red.
There’s a plush velvet sofa off to the side where two women are sitting. They’re draped in designer gowns—Versace, I think. All slinky silk and daring cutouts.
I nod to them as I pass, but they just roll their eyes.
Guess I’m not worth acknowledging.
I slip into one of the stalls and lock the door behind me. Finally, a moment to breathe.
I slide the tray off my shoulder, the leather strap digging into my skin. I set it on the marble countertop, my hands shaking.
Then I sink onto the toilet, head in my hands. I take a deep breath, then another. Trying to calm my racing heart.
The vial is still there, nestled under my tongue. The key to my revenge. But everything’s changed now.
Killing Kuznetsov… It’s not just revenge anymore. It’s patricide. Elijah’s father, dead by my hand.
Bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to scream.
I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want Leonid Kuznetsov dead.
He shattered my world, left me broken. I thought seeing him dying a painful death would make me whole again.
But now… now I don’t know what to do.
Avenge Jake, or spare my son’s father?
Blood or blood?
I close my eyes, pressing my fingers to my temples. Trying to center myself.
Jake’s face fills my mind, his grin bright and mischievous. “Don’t worry, Bug. I’ll always protect you, no matter what.”
The memory shifts, morphs. Suddenly, I’m back in that day, cradling Jake’s broken body. His face is pale, etched with pain and regret.
“Clara, I’m sorry…” He chokes on the words, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. I watch the light fade from his eyes, feel the warmth leach from his skin.
Tears burn behind my lids, scalding and bitter. I let them fall, let myself feel the agony, just for a moment.
