What the fuck?
In one fluid motion, he kicks up both legs, smashing through the windshield. Glass rains down as he pulls himself through theopening like some spider crawling out of its hole. Not a single wasted movement. Not a sound of pain.
Yobany urod. Either this guy’s professional or completely unhinged. Maybe both.
He stands, brushing glass from his jacket like he’s dusting off after a pleasant stroll. Blood trickles down his hands, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
I rest my hand on my Glock. “Hands where I can see them.”
He raises them slowly, and that’s when I notice the Celtic cross tattooed on his right palm. Irish work, old school.
The scar on his face isn’t just a scar—it’s a statement. Raw, twisted flesh cutting from eye to jaw like someone carved a road map of hell into his skin. But it’s his eyes that make my skin crawl. Gray as nuclear winter, empty as a killing field. The kind of eyes you see in old photos of war criminals—men who stopped being human long ago.
I’ve seen men like this before.
The ones who’ve crossed so far over the edge, they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be human.
He takes a step forward.Blyat, that right leg—it drags behind him like dead weight, hip jerking sideways with each move. The kind of fucked-up walk you only get when a hollow point tears through bone, and they can’t put you back together right.
My Glock’s steady at his chest, but thissukadoesn’t even look at it. Just keeps coming, blood dripping from his sliced-up hands, marking his path on the asphalt like some twisted breadcrumb trail.
“Where’s she?” Another broken step. “Where’s Clara?”
7
Clara
“Sit.”
I look up at Dmitry. And up. And up.
“Please.” I stare straight into his eyes before throwing a wink at Elijah.
My son—bless his tiny dictator heart—nods firmly. “You need to say please if you want something from someone. It’s polite.”
A vein pulses in Dmitry’s neck. His jaw works like he’s chewing glass.
“Please.” The word comes out rough, like he’s been chain-smoking for days.
Elijah beams, clearly satisfied with himself. “Good job,” he says, patting Dmitry’s arm as if he’s just trained the biggest man in the room.
I hold his stare.
I pull out the chair. I sit.
My choice. Not his.
Dmitry grunts. His huge hands hover over Elijah’s chair, adjusting it with the kind of care you’d use handling explosives. My son scrambles up, and Dmitry steadies him with a gentleness that makes my brain short-circuit.
I exhale. Slowly. The fact that he’s not torturing us is a relief.
The giant shuffles toward what I assume is another kitchen behind those swinging doors. Because one massive kitchen isn’t enough in a house like this.
I snicker quietly, glancing around.
This kitchen is something else.
It stretches out like an HGTV fever dream. White marble everywhere. Steel appliances that belong in a restaurant. Floor-to-ceiling windows framing a garden that would make Martha Stewart weep.
