Page 60 of Bleed with Me

“My jealous, obsessed stalker doesn’t like it when I spend time with other women,” I clarified, grimacing when a taunting smirk appeared on my brother’s face. “Yes, I lied to you before, but you already knew that. Zyon told you everything.”

He didn’t say a single word to confirm or deny my statement, but I was sure my brothers shared every piece of information.

“Can you uncuff me, please?” My polite tone was in stark contrast to the annoyance that ate me alive.

“First, tell me who she is,” Malin negotiated, showing no interest in helping me.

“I don’t fucking know,” I groaned, fighting the cuffs and my own embarrassment.

“You don’t know who chained you to a column and killed your lover?” He chuckled, raising my blood pressure.

He never laughed! Why did he have to do it now?

“Leigh isn’t… wasn’t my lover.” I rolled my eyes, shaking my head in irritation. Nobody listened to me.

“Sure.” Malin stepped closer, eyeing the marble pillar. “And how did this happen?”

He pointed at my naked body and the key at my feet that I couldn’t reach, evidently fighting with a grin to take over his expression. The last time he smiled was two months ago, if I didn’t count the time he spent with Zyon’s daughter, Zara. I should be happy about this achievement, but fuck! I was humiliated and not in a sexy way that ma vilaine mastered.

“Can you stop?” I groaned, glaring at him. “We need to clean the room.”

“We?” he repeated as if I had terribly insulted him.

“Yes, we,” I confirmed, my patience running out. “It’s your business and my reputation that are at stake here. Are we going to risk exposure?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, his familiar murderous glare finally making him look like Malin I knew my entire life.

“When I find her—” he threatened, unlocking the cuffs.

“Get in line,” I interrupted him, rubbing the sore skin around my wrists. The simple thought of getting my hands on her turned my anger and frustration into excitement. She just left, and I couldn’t wait to see her again. “That little menace is mine.”

-31-

Nina

Ididn’t sleep. I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, the night replayed itself. The hotel room. The smell of gunpowder. The look on Dorian’s face. The corpse. So instead, I lay sprawled across my bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant hum of the city waking up.

Killing wasn’t new to me. Grandpa had made sure of that long before he died. My initiation into the family business ended with blood on my hands and a lesson I was expected to carry for the rest of my life: hesitation got people killed. I’d pulled the trigger before, but never because of jealousy. That was the part I couldn’t stop thinking about.

I waited for guilt to crash over me, for panic, nausea, or regret to claw its way up my throat. But nothing came. What arrived instead was justification.

She touched him. Dorian was mine. That woman should’ve known better.

I turned my head, staring at the pale light creeping through the curtains. Growing up in a house where rules were written in blood and enforced with fists left a mark on me. My grandfather was a capo. The word mercy wasn’t part of his vocabulary. I watched men disappear for less than betrayal. I saw broken bones, split lips, and terror used as education.

Violence wasn’t shocking to me. It was language, structure. It was how order was maintained.

However, the mafia rules clearly stated that jealousy wasn’t a reason for murder. I kind of slipped there. Emotional killings were sloppy. I’d heard that lecture many times, but this wasn’t just jealousy to me.

It was betrayal.

Shifting onto my side, I pulled the blanket around myself. My body felt wired and exhausted at the same time. Every nerve buzzed, and a stupid smile appeared on my lips when my thoughts drifted to him.

Dorian.

The way he stared at me when he realized I won almost made me laugh out loud. How adorably lost and surprised he looked. He couldn’t know I'd spent countless hours on the training grounds. I was still shocked that my improvised plan worked. He clearly underestimated me because, in a direct confrontation, I’d have lost.

I was too small to beat a six-foot-something male. Sonny proved that the last time he literally crushed me. But I wouldn’t make that mistake again. If that meant killing him and signing my death sentence because the Zhumagulovs protected him, so be it. But I would put a bullet into his stupid head if he hit me again. If I could kill a woman for touching my husband, I surely could erase the fucker who dared to punch me.