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His chin lifted, and he stared right back at me with those dark eyes. “I’m not leaving until that door locks behind you. If you want me to go, hurry up and do it.”
A sound like a growl that I’d never made before slipped between my teeth, and I jammed my key into the lock with more force than necessary. I quickly slipped inside and slammed the door in his scarred face, turning the deadbolt behind me. I pressed my back to the wood and heaved in a deep breath.
I waited until I heard his heavy boots stomping away, fading into the night as he finally left me alone. A tremor wracked my body, and I slid to the floor as all the strength drained out of me. I huddled there for a long time, my bleeding knees stinging and my heart racing.
Max Ferrara had saved my life. He’d grabbed me out of the street before that car could hit me, and he’d gently checked my injuries. He’d insisted on walking me home and seeing me safely inside.
And he still wanted to punish my father for some imaginary sin. Max had sworn that he would leave me alone, but I didn’t think for one second that he was out of my life for good.
Chapter 7
Max
The blood on my hands irritated me. Usually, I didn’t even notice the hot, thick slide down my fingers while I went to work with my knife. But now…
Mere hours ago, I’d been touching Alexandra with these hands. She’d been shockingly soft and feminine in a way I’d forced myself to forget. It’d been two years since I’d touched any woman, and in that time, my world had been coated in blood.
Alexandra was innocent, completely removed from this ugly, violent world. She’d been so delicate and warm in my arms, clinging to me for protection.
My stomach soured, and my mouth twisted in a grimace. The man tied to the chair before me whimpered at the horror of my fearsome expression, but my scowl wasn’t directed at him.
Protection. The thought was ridiculous. I was no one’s protector, especially not Ron Fitzgerald’s daughter.
When that stupid high heel had turned her ankle, I’d acted on instinct to pull her out of the way of traffic. It was the least I could do, since I’d terrorized her in my basement. She was entirely oblivious to her father’s corruption, but I couldn’t take back what I’d done to her.
Blood seeped into my shirt as I rubbed against the strange ache at the center of my chest. Holding her had felt good. Having her hold on to me had felt good.
Pathetic. Acid coated my tongue. The only reason she hadn’t recoiled from me was because she’d been shaken up from almost getting run over.
I should’ve left her alone as soon as I pulled her to safety. But I’d stayed with her. I’d checked her for injuries. I’d insisted on walking her to her door, like we were on some kind of goddamn date and I was a fucking gentleman.
I released a frustrated growl, and the man tied to the chair cowered.
“Please,” he begged. “I have children.”
I rolled my eyes, impatient to get past the point of lies. “No, you don’t. I picked you because no one will really miss you. Will they, Kirill?”
My blade glinted in the spare light of the single bulb overhead, and he screamed.
Alexandra had been tied to this same chair not very long ago. She’d screamed, too.
The ache in my chest intensified, and I grimaced. I’d made sure not to hurt her. My ruined face alone had been enough to make her weep.
But she hadn’t wept when I’d saved her from getting hit by that car. She hadn’t been particularly grateful, either. She’d huffed at me and warned me to stop my vendetta against her father.
As though that would ever happen.
Questioning her had gotten me nowhere. I’d frightened an innocent woman, and the memory of her tear-streaked face made my stomach turn.
Taking her had been a terrible mistake. She didn’t deserve my retribution. But scum like Kirill did.
The man trafficked heroin for the Bratva. He was one of the most important men I’d ever dared to grab, but I was getting desperate. I couldn’t risk drawing the full ire of the Russians, not when my family was so vulnerable—half of us were still imprisoned. But if Kirill talked, it would be worth it.
“You know something about your boss’ ties to Ron Fitzgerald.” I said it like a condemnation, a known fact. “Tell me.”
The whites of his eyes were huge, his brown irises thin rings around dilated pupils. He licked his bloody lips. “Mr. Ivanov’s relationship with Fitzgerald is purely political. That’s all I know. It’s exactly what it looks like.”
Yes, it was public knowledge that Mikhail Ivanov, billionaire businessman, was an ardent supporter of Ron Fitzgerald’s politics. What the public didn’t know was that Ivanov controlled the Bratva in New York, and Fitzgerald knew all about it.
