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He must be fucking joking.
“No,” I whimper. “I’m not safe…”
Pools of red decorate the ground. Lights illuminate the puddles and make them look like ponds of paint. It’s not blood at all, not from this angle.
But I know better.
I’m not stupid.
But I sure fucking feel stupid.
Nausea crashes in my gut like furious waves against the side of a cliff. Over and over the waves splash through me, flashing hot and cold, sliding from my shoulders to my knees that are knocking together like those old bone cartoons.
Blood. Bodies.Brutality.
And the man standing in the middle of it all is advancing toward me.
Pavel holds up his hands. The gun is gone. Where did he put it?
“Liya.”
I hop back. “Don’t.”
It’s like we’re dancing now, a choreography of my stupid, silly ideas about what this stupid, silly life would bring for my. Panic strolls through my core with nausea. God, I didn’t think I could feel so much at once.
I cover my mouth as a gag breaks loose.
So much blood.
The club is silent except for the sound of sirens somewhere in the distance. Part of me understands we have to leave right now. But there’s another part of me that can’t quite chew on this three-course meal.
Things were so normal just minutes ago. I was handing out cash to the brigadiers and they were all smiles, laughing, grateful in every way. I was practically the center of attention. I was practically theirqueen.
And then everything exploded in pure mayhem and chaos. Everything exploded.
Shit, a wallliterallyexploded at the entrance of the club.
Pavel steps forward again, using his body to shield me from the horrific massacre that happened behind him. Because let’s face it, he didn’t just defend himself.
Heslaughteredthose men.
But what did I expect from the man who forced a waitress to kneel in front of me just for an apology? Pavel isn’t some white knight who scooped me out of a dangerous battlefield. He’s the monster that started the war. He’s not here to rescue me from my prison; he’s the one who built the tower.
My eyes widen.
I’m married to a killer.
Any fantasies I had about living a peaceful life—about winning the Citta Nostra for my brother and having my family back—shatter to pieces in the face of cruel reality. I look at the ground, half expecting to see shards of glass everywhere reflecting my terrified features, my stupefied expression, my idiotic expectations.
I cover my face and choke back a sob.
This isn’t happening. I’m asleep. Viktoria is going to wake me up any second now.
Hands gently take my upper arms. I shudder while dropping my hands to my mouth, staring into the unforgiving chromatic marbles mirroring the disco lights. For a second, I’m fooled into thinking they’re crystals, that his eyes host a pinch of sympathy, maybe even regret.
But they don’t.
They’re halls of horror.
