Page 94 of The Masked King

“Didn’t they, Bianca?” I’m grateful for the silence when I drop the question into the middle of the room.

“Everyone is following their own agenda,” she says, and if she doesn’t physically manage to shrug, I’m sure she makes up for it mentally. “What’s yours?”

“I’m a cop.” I don’t hesitate. “I took an oath to prevent the bad guys from winning. What’s your excuse?”

It sounds as if a mini explosion is taking place elsewhere in the house, closer than before, and my heartbeat pumps heat around my body and ignites a spark at my core.

Enzo is still alive. The Russian foot soldiers aren’t shooting at each other.

“I don’t need an excuse,” Bianca says. “I’m simply doing what I was born to do. Survive in a world where the only currency worth spending is power.”

Malevsky arches an eyebrow as if someone is finally talking his language.

The bullets are coming closer; my pulse is trying to match the pattern and setting me on fire before the pakhan drops a spark into the gasoline circle. I feel the carpet squelching underneath my sneakers, and bile rises in my throat. I need to end this before Enzo gets here.

“So, you framed Enzo and sat back to watch the Bratva kill your brothers.”

“You think I’m my brothers’ biggest enemy?” There’s almost a hint of amusement in her tone.

“No, but you have the most to gain.”

“I’m sitting right here in this asshole’s fire pit,” she says. “You die; I die.”

“This wasn’t part of the plan though, was it?” I press. “You were supposed to watch from the sidelines and inherit the family legacy once it was all over. But curiosity killed the cat, or in this instance, the cat got its paws caught in the sticky web, and here you are.”

Silence.

Malevsky is following the conversation with a little more interest, feet planted squarely apart, lighter in one hand. His casual stance suggests that he knows Enzo will be here at any moment.

“Are we done here?” he releases a sigh of boredom, and I glare at him.

“Admit it, Bianca.” Time is running out, and I need him to hear it for himself, or at least put two and two together and get four. “You recorded Enzo leaving the house after he set the fire in the den like you asked him to, then you snuck in and set the fire in this room, the one that destroyed the house.”

Malevsky shifts his attention back to the lighter in his hand. “Much as I’m enjoying our cozy chat, Ms. Payne, I believe you’re the one who is missing the point. It doesn’t matter who set the fucking fire, I’m still going to kill you all.”

“Why?” I hear the desperation in my own voice, and I hate that this evil bastard can make me feel this way. “You think revenge will make you happy?”

“I know it will.”

“Until the next enemy pisses you off, and the next. You might think you’re clever, but you’re just like every other pakhan out there, driven by greed and power and⁠—”

His face is in mine, his breath permeating my oxygen, his thick fingers squeezing my face in his iron grip. “Don’t make me kill you before your boyfriend gets here. I would hate for him to miss the show.”

“Fucking coward.” It’s impossible to form the words with my jaw squashed in his fist, but I think he gets the gist of what I’m trying to say when his eyes darken. “Blame everyone else instead of owning your actions.”

Silence invades the rest of the house for a second time, and his lips curl. “Looks like he made it.”

He shoves my face away from him and releases me, and I work my jaw to ease the throbbing and make it feel normal again. I’m torn. I want Enzo to walk through the door like an avenging superhero, but at the same time, I wish that he’d stayed away. With a little more time, I might’ve convinced my captor that he’s been tracking down the wrong person for the past twelve months. Sure, he’ll take me down with her, but at least Enzo and Gio would be safe.

But even as I’m allowing this impossible scenario to grow legs inside my head, the door to my right opens, and Enzo walks in.

The door closes behind him with a click.

I gasp. His shoulder is blown open, his jacket shredded, the flesh beneath it little more than a pulpy mess. Blood trickles down his leg from another bullet wound, but he strolls in with a weapon in each hand as if this is his showdown and everything is going according to plan.

His eyes land on me, and his expression softens momentarily. He looks bone-weary. There are dark pouches under his eyes, his skin is dirty from the ash the house has been guarding for the last year, and his hair is longer than I remember, but he is still so goddamned beautiful, my heart remembers the way it used to beat for him. Of course it does. My love for him was hibernating while I tried to forget him; it didn’t go anywhere.

Then, he sniffs gasoline, spots the container at my feet, and his gaze takes in the ropes and the lighter in our captor’s hand, and finally… his sister.