“Make w-what worse?” I ask, but, deep down, I already know the answer. Whatever Mikhail alluded to doing at the warehouse, he’s going to do it to this person. Tonight.
Niko gently steers me toward the exit, and I comply, continuing to look over my shoulder, seeking my husband. He’s nowhere to be seen, though.
A sense of loss engulfs me as the lack of his warm body next to mine registers harder once I’m outside. The club music booms behind us, and I’m led into the backseat of the car.
It’s like when I left San Maleno, shoved into my father’s Mercedes. Back then, I was staring out the window to see my home. Now, I’m doing it to find my husband. What if something happens to him?
“Relax. It’s going to be fine,” Niko tells me as he gets into the driver’s seat, turning on the heating.
I don’t know how he can be so calm, especially when, moments later, I spot my husband in his tux, dragging a limp weight out into the streets and around the corner into a dark alley.
My body begins to shake—from the cold or from the adrenaline, I’m not sure. Probably both. I can’t see what they’redoing, and it’s making me even more nervous. If Niko hadn’t locked the doors, I would’ve probably gone back outside.
A few agonizing minutes later, my husband returns alone. His jacket is gone, his white shirt soaked in crimson, the sleeves rolled to his veiny forearms. Blood stains his hands, his neck, even across his cheek and jaw.
He opens the car door then stops.
His gaze flicks over my face, lingering on the way my hands tremble in my lap. On the way I press them tighter together, like that might stop the shaking. For a moment, he just stands there in the cold, blood dripping slowly from his knuckles onto the pavement.
His jaw tightens. Then, without a word, he grabs the collar of his ruined shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it into the trunk before sliding into the seat beside me. It’s almost as if he knows about my hemophobia—he might. But if he does, why does he care enough to protect me from the sight of blood?
The scent of his cologne reaches me, clean and familiar around that muscular torso filled with tattoos and scars. The faint tang of iron lingers beneath it now, and I flinch a little.
Mikhail lights a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the red stains still marking his skin.
“You should get used to it,” he says quietly, smoke curling between us before his dark eyes settle on mine. “After all, you married a monster tonight.”
22
Mikhail
“Francesco. Riccardo.Leonardo,” I say, driving my fist through yet another face—an asshole Wolfgang found to be involved with the murder of Massimo. “Are you going to tell me who you work for, or do we need to play Rumpelstiltskin all night? I’m bored.”
A gargled groan. “I already fucking told you. I have no?—”
“Yeah, yeah. You have no idea what I’m talking about.” I draw my arm back, plunging it into the sloppy mess again.
Honestly, I’m not even eager to stop, even though I’ve been at the warehouse for the past four hours trying to make him talk. He’s a hard one to crack, I’ll give him that. Unfortunately for him, I have a ton of pent-up energy. Yeah, we’re definitely staying here all night.
“Let me guess. He promised you…money? Immunity for your wife and daughter?” I ask, grabbing the back of his head and yanking it back. With my other hand, I bring a knife under hischin, digging the sharp edge into his skin. “You do know he’s going to kill you when he’s done, right?”
He jerks his head away, spitting blood to the side. “And so will you. Might as well die for something meaningful.”
“Something meaningful,” I echo, letting out a short laugh. “Then share with me, pray tell, so I can contribute. We’re all trying to earn a place in heaven in the end,” I mock, knowing full well I’ve got a one-way ticket to hell. Especially after what I did to poor Brady in the alley across from Niko’s club the night he ruined my wife’s dress. I’m not usually so careless as to take out a man’s intestines on the streets, but I couldn’t help it.
I was too distracted after that damned kiss.
Still am.
Once I got Cecilia back to the estate and made sure she wasn’t hurt, I realized my mistake: I should’ve never taken her out of her perfect little wedding reception. I should’ve never made her step into my world, be around my friends, entice her to kiss me back the way she did—like she loved it.
And yet, a fucked-up part of me is glad I did. Because at least now, I can confirm it’s not just me. We both want this, even if I keep telling myself it’s just a carnal craving.
“It’s not my story to tell,” the guy says, wheezing, reminding me I’ve lost my focus again.Fuck.
“It is, if you care about any of your limbs at all.”
He swallows but otherwise remains quiet, sitting on a chair in the middle of the empty room with his head dangling toward the floor. I let out a dramatic sigh, heading for the metal tray with utensils.
