Page 129 of Violent Pawn

When he goes to plunge the knife into my heart, I jerk to the side. Even pinning my wrists, he doesn’t realize until too late, and the blade grazes my side, slicing my dress and making me hiss. Startled, he loosens his grip, so I draw my knee upwards, slamming it into his balls.

He cries out and falls to the side. The knife lands beneath him, but being close to the chair that did so much damage in the beginning, I go for it instead.

My fingers wrap the cool metal, but my feeling of victory is nearly stolen when he grips my ankle and yanks me down. One hand catches my body, the other swinging the chair wildly until the crunching of his face and his scream confirms my triumph.

I roll to my knees and slam the metal onto him again. His face, his side, his back—anywhere reachable. I repeat until his fight ceases and his body goes slack and the knife falls free. Not preferring to risk him retaining a pulse, I take it and draw a clean line of red across his throat.

Panting, I turn for Vasilyev. One more asshole to teach what fucking over the Bratva actually does, even if my adrenaline is quickly fading. Shallow, exhausted breaths constrict my lungs, and a combination of black and red shields my vision.

As expected, Vasilyev is gone.

Fighting against every muscle and nerve demanding rest, I place one foot to the ground and lift my body. Staggering forward with the weapon, I head for the door, intending to track and murder Vasilyev.

Three steps into my journey, a myriad of red, white, and black yanks me to the ground. It crashes against my knees, and then my side when I land on my back. Hand gripping the cement, I crawl a whole inch forward before darkness swallows me whole.

I still won, fuckers. I won.

62

NERO

Avibration pulls me into the unfortunate state of consciousness, faced with the ceiling of my father’s living room. I practically crawled here late last night when I couldn’t find any liquor in Zeno’s office, hiding to avoid going down the dark and tempting path of breaking sobriety.

For the organization and me, I couldn’t do it.

Lost to the grief of nameless emotions, I hardly recall driving here, let alone arriving. Padre was still at the wedding reception, and not wanting to be in the bed stained with memories of her, I passed out on the couch.

Z

Did your hate sex/make-up sex take you two to a warehouse?

Me

Are you still drunk?

Z

Ana. Lev tracked her phone to a warehouse. I ask again, what are you two doing there?

The clinging sleep evaporates for the sudden soul-crushing fear that has me gripping my phone tighter. I tap his name to call, opting for voice over the slow actions of texting that’ll only aggravate me.

As soon as the call is picked up, I demand, “What are you talking about?”

“Do you read? She ran after you last night, but no one’s heard from her in almost twelve hours. Vanessa doesn’t want to leave Rome for our honeymoon until Ana answers her phone—which she hasn’t been doing despite the numerous attempts. Lev called and said it’s located in a warehouse on the outskirts of Rome.”

Like my arrival last night, I hardly recall leaving my father’s house until I’m in the front seat of my car, phone connecting to the vehicle to continue the call. Panic clogs my throat, but she needs me, so I swallow until words work again.

“She’s not with me. I didn’t see her after leaving. Which warehouse?”

“Shit…”

“Z,” I bark, agitation clenching the wheel while pointlessly driving down the road, praying I’m headed in the right direction. “Which. Warehouse?”

He rattles off the location as I reach the highway. I press the gas until every speed limit is broken without a fucking care compared to what Anastasia is doing in some warehouse.

“Vanessa’s freaking out. We haven’t gone to the jet yet. We’re on our way.”

“Drive fast.” I hang up to focus on the trip, speeding by cars and signs, hardly reading any of them until reaching the required turn-off to one of our warehouses.