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I slash out again and again, crawling after her and carving up her legs until blood is coating the bottom half of her shins and dripping onto the floor.
Rian is so desperate to get away from me she slams into the wall. She inhales sharply, and I realize she has knocked the wind out of herself. As quickly as I can, I spring to my feet and grab for the gun.
She fights, gritting her teeth and trying to pull it back, but I slam the heel of my boot on the top of her foot, and she screams and loses her grip.
“Please.” She falls to her knees. The carpet is saturated with her blood, and it squelches under her weight. “Please don’t kill me. Not where Milaya can hear.”
Hearing my daughter’s name on Rian’s lips sends me into a blind rage. A kind of primal protectiveness rises up in me, and I lift the gun and pull the trigger.
The shot hits Rian in the chest.
She falls back against the wall, her legs folded awkwardly beneath her like a broken accordion.
When she looks down at her chest, I can tell she is surprised. She dabs at the bloodstain growing on her shirt and then stares down at her hand. Finally, she slips to the floor, her cheek against the carpet.
Now that the immediate threat is gone, I can feel my conscience breaking through the cloud of rage. I should save Rian. I should try to get her some help, maybe mend a fence between the Volkov family and the Morrisons. I could end the longstanding feud between the Russians and the Irish with this hand of mercy.
But then I hear Milaya cry.
My sweet Milaya. My little girl.
My daughter, who was snatched from her crib because of this woman’s doing.
My precious baby, who has been without her mama and papa for almost ten days. And this bitch threatened to sell Milaya on the black market if I disobeyed her.
Just like that, the tiny seed of empathy inside of me is squashed.
Rian tries to lift her face, reaching a hand out to me as though to touch my boot.
I pick up my foot and drive the heel of my shoe into her hand. Then, I walk past her and into the bedroom.
I go to get my daughter, and I leave Rian Morrison to die.
Milaya is lying in the middle of a crib, her arms and legs thrashing, face red from crying. As soon as I pick her up, she begins to ease. When her little face is pressed against my neck, she whimpers and then settles entirely.
Love and relief like I’ve never known wash through me.
It feels like I’ve been without a key body part and it has finally been returned to me. At long last, I can function normally.
Almost.
But I still don’t know where Luka is or if he is alive.
“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I whisper, rocking her against my chest. “Mama is here.”
I look around the room and realize there is more than just a crib in here. It is an entire nursery.
There is art hanging on the wall, a mobile above the crib, and a changing table stocked with diapers. A white dress sits in the corner, every drawer filled with pink frilly outfits and tiny baby shoes. The closet is stocked with extra sheets, bottles, and pacifiers.
The Morrisons were preparing to keep Milaya. To raise her.
They were going to get rid of me and Luka and keep our daughter as their own.
The thought makes me sick, and suddenly, I can’t spend another second in this room. In this house.
We have to get out.
I press Milaya closer to my chest, shielding her eyes from the blood and chaos of the hallway.
