Max moves like lightning, slamming into Ivan before he can get far. The two crash to the ground, a tangle of limbs and curses. Before Ivan can recover, I’m there, kicking his weapon out of reach and dragging him up by his collar.
Blood streaks his face, his eyes wide with fear now.
Good. He should be afraid.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I say, slamming him against the factory wall. “Now, let's talk a bit about debutantes and tech bros, shall we?”
“I don’t know what—” he chokes, trying to find his bravado, but it’s gone, “what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Bit heartless of Rubio, isn’t it? Shoving his only daughter out into the field without any proper training. I wonder what he was thinking.”
Something akin to recognition seems to flood his expression. “I knew that fucking ginger?—”
My fist connects with his jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the rain.
He crumples to the ground, gasping, bleeding. I crouch, gripping his chin and forcing him to look at me.
“You don’t talk about her. You don’t think about her,” I hiss.
“I’m…n-not tellin’ you a thing.”
I laugh at this. “Oh, I don’t need information from you. That’s not what this is. It was your biggest mistake, threatening her, you know? I might have let you live otherwise.”
His pupils dilate in realization only a millisecond before I plunge my knife between his ribs.
I lean into his ear as blood begins to gurgle in his mouth. “When I send Amos Rubio to hell after you, tell him it was because he fucked with my family.”
15
MIA
Ichose a cafe to meet my father. Somewhere neutral where we wouldn’t be recognized. Somewhere away from the prying eyes of the Guild or the Prince's Hand or, I suppose, the Cartel now.
Not that I think anyone has any reason to be interested in me just yet, but I can’t bring myself to show up on his doorstep, and my apartment is too small for two.
I’ve not really seen Marco since the wedding, not since he dropped off the wedding gift that I still haven’t worn or sold yet. He’d been treading on eggshells that day, which I’d chalked up to the absurdity of the situation.
Now, as he enters the store and I watch him tell the barista his order, I can still see that same tension in his shoulders.
And when he sits next to me, there’s guilt in his eyes. Or is it shame? Or is it the weight of knowing his life choices resulted in marrying his daughter off to a don?
“Papà,” I greet him with a kiss on either cheek.
His fingers linger on my bandaged arm as I pull away.
“You’re hurt,” his voice catches slightly. “He said he wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I hurt myself,” I say firmly, suddenly feeling oddly protective of his opinion of Leon. “Hazards of the job.”
Marco grits his teeth. “What job?”
I give him a pointed look. “Well, I’m not working at theCandelabraanymore.”
“You swore you would leave that life behind.” He’s gripping my hand now, a little desperately. The pressure of his grip sends a dull pain up my arm. “You’re a wife now, soon to be a mother. He shouldn’t be allowing you to keep playing these games.”
Something akin to dread begins to pool in my stomach. “Allowing me?”
“I only agreed to this because he said he would keep yousafe.”
