"You... you bastard," Boris gasps, rolling onto his side, his hand reaching toward the dark corner of the floor where a black revolver is lying in the dust. "You think you've won? The boy is just a piece of paper I own! You think the Bratva will accept a bastard? She’s a ruined whore, Mikhail! She’s a mistake that should have stayed buried!"
"Shut your mouth," Mikhail growls, stepping toward him, his boot coming down hard on Boris’s wrist before he can reach the gun.
The bone in Boris’s wrist snaps with a dullcrack. He screams, his head thudding back against the concrete, but with his good hand, he pulls a small, silver-plated derringer from his boot. He doesn't aim at Mikhail. He aims toward the door.
He aims at me.
"Irina!" Mikhail roars.
I don't think. I don't hesitate. I lunge into the room, my body hitting my father’s shoulder with all the weight I have. We hit the concrete together, the small gun firing with a sharp, high-pitchedpopthat sends a bullet into the brick wall above my head.
I grab his wrist, my nails digging into his skin, trying to twist the weapon out of his hand. He’s old, but he’s strong, his fingers clenching around the grip with a desperate, dying strength. He looks at me, his eyes dark with a pure, unadulterated hatred that I’ve seen my whole life.
"You ruined everything," he spits, his blood staining his teeth. "You spoiled asset."
"I'm not your asset, Papa," I hiss, my jaw set, my hands locking around his. "I’m your daughter. And I’m the one who’s putting you down."
I yank his wrist back, pinning his hand to the concrete. It’s the split second Mikhail needs.
Mikhail steps over us, his large boot coming down on Boris’s throat, pinning him to the floor. He aims his gun directly down at my father's chest.
"Mikhail, wait!" a voice rasps from the doorway.
I look up. Vladimir Morozov is standing there. He looks weak, his hand shaking as he aims a silver automatic at Mikhail’s back. "Don't do it, Mikhail. If you kill him, the Petrovs will turn on us. We need the alliance. We need the name."
Mikhail doesn't look back. He keeps his gun aimed at Boris’s heart. "The alliance is dead, Father. And so are you."
A single shot echoes through the hallway from behind him.
Vladimir freezes. His eyes go wide, a small, dark red circle blooming on the front of his gray coat. He looks down at his chest, then turns his head slowly to look at the man standing in the smoky doorway.
Artyom is standing there, his head still bandaged, his face pale and completely unreadable. He’s holding his gun, the barrel still smoking in the cool air of the hall.
"You retired, Father," Artyom says, his voice a quiet, flat rasp that carries the cold finality of the Pakhan. "You should have stayed in the country."
Vladimir lets out a wet sigh and collapses forward, hitting the concrete with a heavy thud. He doesn't move.
Mikhail looks at Artyom, then looks back down at Boris. My father is staring up at the gun, his breathing shallow, his face apale mask of fear. He knows it’s over. He has no more tricks, no more leverage, no more daughters to trade.
"Mikhail," I say quietly, my hand releasing Boris's wrist. I stand up, stepping back, leaving him completely to my husband. "Do it."
Mikhail pulls the trigger.
The shot is loud, a final, heavy punctuation mark on seven years of silence. Boris’s body jerks once, then goes completely still, his eyes staring blankly at the dark ceiling of the ironworks.
I let out a long, shaky breath, the air leaving my lungs in a rattle that sounds like relief. He’s gone. The man who owned my childhood, the man who stole my son, the man who made me a ghost... he’s just a pile of wet gray wool on a dirty concrete floor.
Mikhail turns to me. He’s covered in blood, his face bruised, his chest heaving, but the 'Madman' in his eyes is gone. There is only a quiet, deep warmth as he looks at me. He reaches out, his hand wrapping around mine, his grip solid and hot.
"Let's go get our boy," he says.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The master suite is too quiet.
We brought Oleg back under a security detail that looked like we were escorting a head of state. There were three black SUVs in the driveway, guards at every corner of the property, and Lev practically living on the front porch. But inside the guest room next to ours, the silence is incredibly fragile.
Oleg is sitting on the edge of the large queen bed. He looks tiny against the massive, dark wood headboard, his knees pulled up to his chin, his small hands still tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie. He hasn't taken it off. He hasn't let me wash the concrete dust from his cheeks. He’s just staring at the plush rug, his eyes blinking slowly.
