Chapter Twelve
Kirill
Those goddamn Italian bastards.
Tonight should've been routine. I'd just left an arms deal at the docks, heading back to the manor.
When the car pulled into the intersection near the docks, I spotted several vehicles parked where they shouldn't be.
But it was already too late. Just as I was about to tell the driver to turn around, the explosion hit. The bomb was rigged under the chassis—those bastards must've planted it while I was inside making the deal.
Flames shot into the sky. The shockwave tore the car door off its hinges. If my instincts hadn't made me kick the door open and roll out at that split second, I'd be lying in the morgue right now.
The driver died instantly. But I wasn't in great shape either—the wound on my left belly cut deep to the bone, and at least two ribs were broken.
I didn't go to the hospital. Didn't even call Boris.
The situation was too fucked up. I couldn't let anyone know I was injured—especially not those Italian vultures circling the Orlov family like we were fresh meat.
But that didn't mean I wouldn't make them pay.
I flagged down a cab and went straight back to the manor. Sat on the couch in my bedroom, disinfecting my wounds. The sting of needle and thread through flesh kept me conscious. Blood kept flowing, but I couldn't afford to care.
The door handle suddenly turned. My nerves went taut, right hand instinctively reaching for the gun at my side.
The door opened. Harper walked in.
She looked like hell. Hair a tangled mess, eyes swollen like peaches, face streaked with tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away. That ratty old coat she wore looked like something pulled from a dumpster.
I frowned. Olga had filled an entire walk-in closet with haute couture for her. She wouldn't wear a single piece. Had to dress like a homeless woman just to piss me off.
But the next second, when she saw me, that misery on her face—the kind that irritated me—turned to horror.
"Kirill?"
She froze in the doorway, staring at my blood-covered hands, face paler than mine.
"Get out."
That was my first reaction. I quickly grabbed my jacket and covered the gash on my abdomen, trying to hide the pathetic wound. I didn't want her to see this.
"You're hurt!" Harper didn't listen. She dropped her bag and rushed over like some reckless idiot. "God, there's so much blood..."
"I said get out!" I raised my voice, but from the blood loss, it had no force—just came out hoarse and pitiful. "Don't you understand English?"
Harper was already in front of me. She dropped to her knees on the carpet, trembling hands reaching for my wound. "I'm calling an ambulance—"
"Don't." I grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "It's just a scratch."
Her tears dripped onto the back of my hand, scalding andirritating.
"Who..." Harper sobbed, voice shaking. "Who did this to you? Why would this happen?"
I was silent for a moment. Damn it, why should I explain any of this to her?
"Italians." I finally spoke, voice cold as ice. "Probably the Dante family from San Francisco. Julian, that bastard—he's always had it out for me."
"Then you should call the police! You should—"
