Page 117 of Where the Wind Whispers

Violet could see the tension tightening her husband’s shoulders.

“Those are heavy demands,” Kaz said, “from a man who’s still limping from our last encounter.”

Carmine smirked. “That’s why I made the demands, Markovic. Get me once, shame on you. Get me twice …”

The wind picked up, carrying the rest of Carmine’s sentence away. It was cold, Violet wanted to tell them, and they should bring the baby out of the wind.

“I’ll have a gun to your head the whole time. You so much as breathe wrong and I’ll paint the vehicle with your brain matter.”

“Fine by me,” Carmine responded in kind.

The wind had picked up on the journey to the cemetery. Kaz could hear it whipping against the body of the car, swaying them just slightly, but he didn’t focus on the whistling sound. Rather, he focused on the baby that was staring at him with wide, familiar eyes.

In his darkest hours, he found himself thinking of her, his little printsessa, the light of his life. Just the thought of her was enough to quell the helplessness he’d felt over the last many hours. It had never been a question as to whether or not he would get Anastasya back, only when.

The rage that had consumed him when he’d learned she was taken was only eclipsed by the choking fear that threaded through his entire being at the idea of never seeing his little girl again.

Kaz had started to believe that it was about him, that Alberto had meant to punish him, for taking from him what wasn’t his in the first place, but after he had pushed his grief to a place that he could ignore, he saw Alberto’s actions for what they were.

It hadn’t been about Kaz at all, rather Violet.

It had always been about Violet.

He wanted her to hurt, and Kaz saw the strain Alberto’s actions had caused his wife. And since Anastasya had been taken, she had barely slept, and when she finally did, she jerked awake, shaking hands grasping the sheets.

Tonight, Kaz knew, she would finally be able to sleep through the night.

Anastasya made a happy sort of sound, wrapping her tiny, little fingers around the one he had tracing her hair. “Daddy loves you,” he whispered in Russian, conscious of listening ears.

“We’re almost there, Russian,” Carmine called from the front seat, not looking away from the windshield.

Kaz wondered what he must have looked like at that moment—a gun in one hand, aimed at his brother-in-law, and another resting on his daughter.

Story of his life—but this chapter was almost over.

The threat of rain was still prevalent when they arrived about a block away from the cemetery. This time, a fleet of SUVs wasn’t waiting for him, nor did he see the security Alberto usually kept with him.

But the street was nearly vacant, not a soul in sight. Carmine parallel parked, bruised eyes looking at him through the rearview mirror.

“Soon as he’s dead, she’s all yours.”

Kaz tucked his gun away, taking one last look at his daughter. She wouldn’t remember this day, not like he had when he was brought to this place more than fifteen years ago. And by the time he left this place, he would ensure that this day wouldn’t follow her.

“Exactly ten minutes from now, call my brother and give him this address. What I said before still stands. Your father will die today, but you … you can live a long, prosperous life.”

Carmine nodded.

One last glance at his daughter, Kaz said, “Not a hair on her head, Gallucci.”

Outside of the car, the wind whipped at his coat, blowing through the strands of his hair, but all Kaz could focus on was the wrought-iron gate looming ahead of him, opened wide as though welcoming him inside.

You’ll know where I’ll be.

Kaz did know—the moment Alberto had given him the name. It felt only right that it was here where everything would end—the same place this vicious cycle of violence had begun.

Strolling through, his gaze immediately sought the low-sitting bench on the north side of the cemetery where, as he had expected, Alberto awaited him, his hands folded in his lap. He appeared rather calm, but why shouldn’t he when he thought he was getting what he wanted?

And he nearly had, had he paid even the slightest bit of attention.