Page 97 of Tainted Blood
The Ukrainian smiles, the sight of his beet-stained teeth fueling me. “Did you know sheep depend on sight to survive, Carrera? Is why they avoid shadows and darkness. What do you think happens to damaged little lambs when the lights go out?”
It’s this image that tips the scale, sending the sliver of self-restraint I have left scattering across the floor. When I lunge, it’s not to save my own life, but to avenge theirs.
Blinding hate sears my vision as I reach for the bowl of borscht in front of me, hurling it over my shoulder into the Ukrainian soldier’s face. Caught off guard, he stumbles backward, giving me a wide enough breadth to hurl myself across the table. In seconds, my gun is in my hand, and I’m twisting around—the sound of Grayson’s heated curses filling my ears as I fire two bullets.
One into the guard holding Grayson.
The other into the motherfucker trying to decapitate me.
As both guards hit the floor, Grayson grips his shoulder, biting out a muffled curse as blood pumps in between his fingers. Before I can survey the damage, Lisko mutters something in Ukrainian, then lumbers out of his chair, his hand going for his gun.
Not today, motherfucker.
Leaping over the flimsy card table, I collide into him, the force knocking both of us into the stove and my muzzle to his forehead. Familiar shouts and gunshots narrow into a vortex beyond the steel doors, as I stare into the eyes of the man who lured me away from my wife.
Suddenly, the monster inside me craves more than a bullet. It wants immoral justice.
“Since you like family recipes so much, let me share one of mine,” I hiss. “It’s a Carrera favorite.”
Offering him a rare smile, I drive my knee into his stomach, the blow causing him to tilt forward just enough that I can grab the back of his neck, twist him around and shove him face first into his fucking pot of borscht. His arms flail as he struggles, but I don’t relent until he chokes on his tradition and drowns a painful death.
When I let go, his body collapses onto the floor, the pot tipping over on top of his lifeless body.
“Carrera.”
Snapping out of my murderous rage, I turn to find Grayson, his shoulder soaked in blood, the same murderous glare in his eyes.
We sprint through the restaurant toward our waiting SUVs, our heavy steps sounding like the cadence of a drum pounding out our worst fears. Once we’ve crossed the street, we split in two different directions.
As I reach the driver’s side door, Grayson calls out my name again. Looking up, I find an expression soaked in blood, honor, and determination. “No matter what happens, Zaccaria dies.”
The bleak implication hits hard, driving the husband further into the shadows, while arming the monster with twenty years of redirected hate.
“He will,” I promise. “If I have to claw my way up from hell and drag him down myself… He will.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thalia
Santi clearly doesn’t trust me to save my orgasms for him.
Fifteen minutes after he’s gone, while I’m still cursing my husband for pocketing both my panties and my modesty on his way out, Reece steps into the room.
He stands like a sentry by the door as I perch on a gold barstool texting Lola to see if, by some miracle, she wants to drag herself away from her sick bed and come and join me down here. She’s not answering any of them, though. She’s not even reading them. In the end, I try calling, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I haven’t touched a drop of champagne since Santi left. I don’t much feel like celebrating anymore, because I know exactly where he’s gone. Still, it’s my birthday, so I need to be drinking something to take the edge off my sexual frustration and fears.
“Come and mix cocktails with me, Reece,” I beg, sliding off the barstool and rounding the edge of the counter.
He shakes his head with a grimace. “No drinking on the job. You know your father’s rules.”
“Will you at least sit with me?”
With a sigh, he lumbers his giant six-foot-four frame over to the bar, running his hand back and forth over his bald head as if he’s rubbing away his reluctance.
“Do you know any Tom Cruise tricks?” I joke, waving the cocktail shaker in his face.
When he doesn’t answer, I bang the shaker down and start packing it with ice. I go to pour in a couple of shots of vodka when there’s a loud thump outside the door, followed swiftly by another.
