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I can teach him so much. At least, I hope I can.
I can teach him to be better than me, less broken, less savage than me, while reminding him that a man must be savage sometimes, no matter how civilized he becomes.
I imagine leaning down and scooping him up into my arms, hugging him close to me, and whispering in his ear, telling him I love him. I’ll always love him. He’s my son and I won’t coddle him, no damn way, but I will teach him to be a good man, I’ll be involved in his life.
I pause and let my eyes skirt over the winter-dark foliage, a few shafts of hazy sunlight making the dew-wet leaves glisten.
I ache to be here with my family.
I ache to feel their presence all around me.
But I have to fight for that future.
I walk to the edge of the forest where I left the off-roader. I stow the duffle in the trunk, next to the tools of my work, the guns, and the knives that will be easy to hide for the meeting.
I’ve got no doubt that they’ll pat me down, but Bratva men can be clumsy, especially the goons. I’ve slipped by them a few times before, and I’m counting on the same carelessness now.
I drive down the road, trying not to let my thoughts scatter back to the safe room. But it’s impossible not to think about my Juliana with Rebel in her arm. And then Rebel flits and a baby lies in her place, and Juliana stares down at our child with all the love in the world brimming from her glistening eyes.
She’s going to be such an incredible mother.
That’s the life she deserves, one of peace and contentment and family and love, not running across the States with Patricia, always looking over her shoulder.
If I have to kill a hundred men to secure my woman’s future, then I will, without question.
I shut my mind away from the future and my family as much as I can as I take the quiet roads to the warehouse, my temples pulsing as a song of war starts to rise up inside of me.
Hopefully, this will be the last time I have to turn into a dead-cold killer, the last time I have to break off a piece of myself and leave it on the battlefield.
I turn into the clearing in the forest to find an orange, rusty gate propped open by cinderblocks. The warehouse is a picture of shattered windows and overgrown weeds, creeping like nature’s hands up the side of the building and invading the shattered windows.
I drive up to the entrance, my senses piqued and heightened, my instincts niggling.
Something is wrong.
The Bratva wouldn’t let me drive up to the entrance like this, untouched, unsearched. They’d want to make a show of power, display their dominance by having me pull over and step from the car.
Suddenly, a bullet pings off the driver-side window, the shatter-proof glass making a crunching sound.
It’s the only thing that saves my life.
Another bullet hits the windshield, and then my tires with a ping noise as the bullets bounce off of them, too.
Thank fuck I took precautions.
I scan the warehouse and then spot the shooter, lying prone in jet black clothing with the barrel of his rifle sticking out between the intertwined ivy.
Fuck.
This was a setup, a much cleaner one than I expected.
I thought Igor would at least show his face before they tried to kill me, giving me a chance to end this.
But it’s clear that this was an assassination attempt, plain and simple.
Which means Igor is somewhere else.
Something drops in my stomach a weighted stone causing my insides to twist painfully.
The realization stings.
Igor is at the house.
Chapter Eighteen
Juliana
“Try him again,” Patricia says, a warble in her voice.
“I am,” I reply sharply, dialing the number for Jett’s burner cell for what must be the tenth time.
But the line cuts out straight away, the signal dying.
We’re huddled at the back of the safe room, away from the metal door which hisses. On the other side, men are talking loudly in Russian, so loudly I can just about hear their voices through the thick metal and the grinding hiss of the blowtorch, or mechanical saw, or whatever the heck they’re using to try and bust their way in here.
They’re going to cut their way in and then slaughter us, coldly execute us, Rebel included.
Or maybe they’ll take their time.
Maybe they’ll torture and humiliate and degrade us first.
The lights inside the safe room flicker.
“He’s locked us in and now they’re going to kill us,” Patricia snaps, pacing up and down in front of the bunk beds, wringing her hands.
I rock Rebel in my arms, the little dog trembling each time the door makes a hiss or a crunching noise. She was barking at first, but now she’s starting to calm, but only a little. Her lips are pulled back to reveal her teeth, a growl sounds softly at the back of her throat. For the first time since I got her, I wish that Rebel was bigger, a massive angry fanged hound that could slaughter enough of these men to at least save her own life.
