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Igor chuckles, but even through the metal door of the safe room, I can hear a note of hesitation in the noise.
“What?”
“You put me in a room where I don’t have to hold back. You put me in a room where I can let the beast free.”
“Men,” Igor roars.
I yell and stumble backward into the room when the gunshots start, loud bangs that sound like firecrackers being let off on the other side of the door. Patricia appears behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and guiding me deeper and deeper into the safe room, back into the bathroom, where she slams the door and stands in front of it with her arms crossed.
“I have to go out there,” I gasp, my mind filled with images of Jett’s bloody face, his smeared brains.
I shiver like I’ve got a fever.
“They’re going to kill him,” I gasp.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Patricia says, the constant bang-bang-bang of gunshots ceasing now.
I can’t hear anything anymore.
There’s too much distance between us and the thick safe room door.
My legs become jelly and I slump against the wall, sliding down, holding Rebel tight to my chest and trying to focus on keeping her calm.
That’s all I can do, sit here and wait, sit here and pray.
Minutes pass, but it feels like forever, each second expanding to an epoch of its own. I smooth my hands over Rebel’s ears and up and down her body, waiting for the buzz of the Bratva tools to start attacking the door again, telling me that Jett lost.
My man is dead.
More minutes—more agony.
And then the door creaks and grinds mechanically.
“They made him give them the code,” Patricia murmurs, turning toward the bathroom door with her hands fisted as though in defense. “We’re dead. Oh, God. Stay behind me, Julia. Maybe we can surprise them. Maybe you can get away while they’re dealing with me.”
“No,” I say firmly, rising to my feet and walking up beside her. I reach down and take her hand, still cradling Rebel to my chest with the other. “Patricia, I need you to know, really know, I don’t blame you. I love you. You’re the mother I ever had.”
Patricia sniffs and paws at her cheeks. “I love you,” she croaks. “You’re the best daughter I could wish for.”
Slowly, the door opens outward.
My heart leaps and soars and dances.
Jett stands there, his face grim-set, his jet black clothes splattered here and there with shimmering crimson. He has his hand on the back of another’s man neck, squeezing, causing the man’s face to constrict in pain. He’s short and balding and wears an ill-fitting suit, stained with blood, one of the sleeves torn.
“Tell her you’re sorry,” Jett snarls. “Swear on your father’s name that you will never try to hurt her, or me, or our family ever again. Swear it in the name of the Bratva, or you will die here.”
The man makes a pathetic whimpering noise, his eyes wide pits.
I peer around Jett’s body, worried that one of Igor’s men is going to sneak up on Jett.
Jett sees me looking, meets my eyes cooly, and shakes his head.
They’re dead, his look says. I had to do it.
“I’m s-sorry,” Igor whimpers, sounding like a scared child. “Oh, God, please don’t hurt me. Please.” He starts to blubber, tries to fight it, and then fails as tears stream unchecked down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t try to hurt you again. I’ll stop chasing you. Please, just don’t hurt me. Please. I swear on my father. I swear on the Bratva. Please don’t hurt me.”
He sounds like a scared child, nothing like the confident, ruthless man I’d envisioned when he was on the other side of the door.
Jett nods matter of factly and reaches into his pocket, taking out his phone.
He presses a button and Igor’s voice rises into the room, repeating what he’s just said.
“How do you think it’d go for you if your men ever heard this recording?” Jett growls. “If I ever see you again – if I see any Russian anywhere near my family – I’ll release this recording. That’s it. We’re done. And don’t think killing me will save your sorry ass. I’ll have safety measures in place. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Igor pants. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Good, now get the fuck out of here.”
Jett spins and tosses him away. Igor stumbles and lands on his face, letting out a wheezing, shivering noise, and then climbs clumsily to his feet.
He sprints out of the room.
“Men, get up. We’re leaving. Get the fuck up. Now.”
“I thought you killed them,” I murmur, my voice sounding hollow.
“No,” Jett growls, turned sideways with his hands on his hips, watching the door for any sign that they’re going to return. “I don’t kill if I can help it. I just worked them over. They’ll be bloody and injured for weeks, but they’ll live.”
