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Mikhail’s dark chuckle floods the air. “You have no fucking idea how much your shit voice pisses me off.”
“I did what I had to do. You came after my wife.”
“I never even touched her,” Mikhail says. “I’m done letting you take everything I care about. Sloane was my last straw.”
Max’s grip around me loosens when he watches this play out. But he’s making a mistake. He doesn’t know Mikhail like I do.
He’s angry at everything right now; there’s no rational thought going through his mind.
“I said a few colorful words that pissed you off,” Mikhail says, “and you take everyone I care about? How is that fair?” he asks as he points the gun at Giovanni again.
Giovanni holds his hand up as if it’ll shield him from the bullet in the chamber of Mikhail’s gun. He gives it no second thought and shows no sign of remorse as he shoots Giovanni in the thigh.
Giovanni’s hands go straight to the bullet wound, and he swears under his breath.
At this point, I can’t even say I’m shocked. I didn’t flinch at the sound of the gun blaring though the air—I just watched it play out.
“I’m going to—” Giovanni starts to say to Mikhail, but he gets interrupted.
“You’re not going to do shit. You’ve shot me three times—”
Mikhail kicks him in the head, and he falls onto his back, a pained groan slipping from his lips. “Mikhail,” he says.
“You can’t even mask your pain. Is that what special treatment will get you?” Mikhail grits out. “Let me be the first to say that I love watching you choke on your own mistakes.”
“Max,” I whisper, wanting to get in the middle of them. He ducks down and lifts me onto his knee, wrapping his arms around my stomach. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making sure you don’t do something stupid. You have to let Mikhail work this out on his own.”
My mouth falls when I see something silver rise in Giovanni’s hand.
A gun.
CHAPTER32
MIKHAIL
Giovanni crouches to the ground like a pussy, unable to serve for his own actions.
He pleads something, but I ignore him and grab him by the back of his jacket. Giovanni didn’t even try to hide, let alone run. What happened to the confidence he had before?
There’s a struggle in his arms to hold himself up, and I’ve hardly wounded him. He shot me last night and I’m still standing. The sound of his gun still echoes in my mind.
Mr. Gray takes a gun out of his waistband and places a bullet in the center of the man’s forehead. He gives it no second thought, shows no sign of mercy. He shows no emotion at all.
My heart drops, and I shudder at the loud gunfire. A high-pitched ringing fills my ears and makes everything around me sound muffled. I had no idea they could be so loud.
The man falls to the ground, and I watch the endless stream of blood flow from his skull. I stare at the dead man as if I’ve seen many bodies drop to the floor. It doesn’t shock me as much as I thought it would. Seeing the man fall to the ground isn’t what scares me—it’s the sound of him choking on his own blood. It gurgles through his closing throat while he fights for his final breath of air.
Mr. Gray walks up to the dead man and mutters something under his breath. He’s calm and collected. That should terrify me, but it doesn’t. In fact, I admire it. Even at the age of thirteen, I’m not ignorant to the idea the man who hit me deserved to die.
“Never speak empty threats. If you have a purpose, you stay true to it.” He looks directly at me.
Looking down at the wound, I notice the stitches are ripped open.
“How’s that healing up?” he asks smugly.
“Just fine,” I tell him. I step on the fingers of his exposed hand, and he turns his head away from me, but I direct it back to me and take in a deep breath. “Are you going to piss yourself?” I ask him.
