All of it.
If I hadn’t kidnapped Sophia, if I hadn’t dragged her into my world of violence and blood, her brother would be safe.
Her father would be alive.
She would still be that innocent college student worried about psychology papers instead of whether her family would survive the night.
Sophia appears from down the hall, carrying two cups of coffee she probably won’t drink.
Her blue eyes are red-rimmed from crying, her face pale. When she sees me, something in her expression makes my chest tighten.
“He’s alive,” I tell her. “In critical condition, but alive.”
She sets down the coffee and moves to me, her arms wrapping around my neck.
I pull her against me, burying my face in her hair, breathing in her scent.
She’s the only thing keeping me from completely losing myself to the rage building in my chest.
By morning, Tony’s condition has stabilized slightly. Still critical, but holding on. The doctor says if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, his chances improve significantly.
“I need to go out for a while,” I tell Sophia as dawn breaks through the windows. “Handle some business.”
Her eyes sharpen with understanding. “Mikhail, no. Not like this. Not when you’re?—”
“I’ll be back soon.” I kiss her forehead.
Marco waits for me in the garage, his expression grim. “I’ve got three of Lorenzo’s men in the basement. Grabbed them from one of his safe houses.”
“Good.” The word comes out cold, empty. I feel nothing except the need to make someone pay. “Let’s go.”
Lorenzo’s men are bound to chairs in the center of the space, hoods over their heads. When I rip the first one off, I see a young guy, maybe twenty-five, his eyes wide with terror.
“Where is he?” I ask, my voice deadly calm.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I drive my fist into his face, feeling his nose break under my knuckles. Blood sprays across my shirt, mixing with Tony’s. “Wrong answer.”
I move to the second man, older, with a scar across his cheek. “You. Where’s Lorenzo?”
“Fuck you, Artyomov.”
The rage explodes. I grab him by the throat, squeezing until his face turns purple.
Marco steps forward, concerned, but I wave him off.
I need this.
Need to feel something other than guilt and helplessness.
“Mikhail.” Sophia’s voice cuts through the red haze. I spin around to find her standing in the doorway, her face pale with shock.
“What are you doing here?” I release the man, who gasps for air. “I told you to stay with Tony.”
“Melinda’s with him.” She moves closer, and I see her taking in the scene—the bound men, the blood, the violence barely contained.
“This isn’t something you should see.” I turn back to the men. “Last chance. Where is Lorenzo hiding?”
