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Katie, Tammy, and Elysse all burst into giggles, drawing the attention of our professor, who scowls as he stops his lecture.
“Is there something amusing about leptospirosis that I’m unaware of, ladies?” he asks dryly, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose.
Katie clears her throat, attempting to straighten her face. “Not at all, Professor. So sorry. Please continue.”
“Well, now that I have your permission,” he scoffs. And after a notable pause, he falls back into the same monotonous tone that served as the background of my dark thoughts.
Birthday plans decided, my friends fall back into taking notes, and I refocus on the clock above the whiteboard, reminding myself that I only have so much time in which to make up my mind.
Do I entrust Mishka with the knowledge that I’m pregnant and hope he can bring some clarity to the situation? Can I trust him not to hate me when I tell him? Would it be better if he does hate me? Maybe then, he would make the decision for me and leave on his own.
I would much prefer the heartbreak of having him walk away than to have him taken from me, to have his life cut short.
I hate that I’m even having to think about it. Why does my family have to be so stubborn, so pigheaded that Viktor would threaten Mishka’s life just to keep him away from me in the first place? Whom I choose to be with should be up to me. And it shouldn’t come down to a life-or-death decision.
I resent my family for making that a legitimate possibility in my mind.
I love my father. I love my brother.
But it feels as though they’re willing to trade my happiness for their own betterment and prestige.
I don’t care that my father is giving me more freedom than most Bratva princesses might receive. I want the God-given right to freedom that everyone in America is supposed to be born with—the right to choose whom I love and how.
And yet, I’m not ready to risk Mishka’s life while I die standing on that hill.
30
MISHKA
My knuckles throb, the skin cracked and bleeding despite the brass that circles them. But I’m no worse for wear compared to the three men strapped to chairs in the back of Roxanne’s. The strip club isn’t particularly classy. It’s one of those greasy holes-in-the-wall where guys go when they’re ashamed of their appetite but want to get off without anyone recognizing them.
And after tonight, it’s going to be under new management.
The three bloody pulps that slump before me have been beaten and tortured beyond recognition. Roxanne’s owner—on the far right—is missing his ear. He has no more teeth, thanks to me, and the skin of his face has so many lacerations that his white button-down is now a solid shade of crimson.
The man in the middle is most definitely dead. I think he was the owner’s son, though they couldn’t seem to agree on that point.
The third guy, to the left—the floor man—is missing a hand now. It bleeds freely on the open floor, creating a pool of blood. If someone doesn’t do something about it soon, he’s going to bleed out. That’s just a cold, hard fact.
“Blyat,” Rasputin mutters, following it up with a string of Russian curses.
Another wrong turn.
We’re closing in on the people responsible for the ambush the night we came home from Captain Petryov’s engagement party—or at least that’s what Rasputin has assured me. But he still looks irritated at the dying men before us.
“Go clean yourself up, Orlov,” he says, jerking his chin toward the bathroom. “You and I will report to the Pakhan tonight.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not covered in blood and looking every part the murderer he is. My stomach turns to imagine walking through Alina’s house in my state. But I simply nod, clenching my fists as I head toward the office door.
“Kristof, Lenka, you’re in charge of cleanup.” I catch the order just before I slip into the hall. At least I can be grateful for that small mercy. Rasputin is decently fair when it comes to spreading the work, so I’ve dug a good number of graves in the past month, but not all of them.
The club music still throbs on the other side of the wall, filtering in through the opening that grants customers access to a bathroom. I step inside the men’s side and throw the bolt as soon as I’m sure I’m alone.
Facing the mirror, I take in the sight of blood that splattered across one cheek and onto my forehead. I’ve learned the importance of wearing dark clothes for this job, so thankfully, it blends well with my black T-shirt. But every bare inch of my skin is flecked with the evidence of what I’ve become.
Dropping my brass knuckles on the counter beside the sink, I turn on the faucet and get to work scrubbing my hands clean of blood. Though I’m not sure I’ll ever rid myself of the stain it’s left on my soul.
In my need for revenge, I’m becoming the very thing I hate about Sergio. I was used to breaking the law, even roughing people up, for the last Bratva I worked for. The Nezhit weren’t completely innocent, and I knew that. But Sergio and his men are ruthless, bloody murderers.
