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“Mikhail!” Konstantin grabs for his shirt, but Mikhail pulls away.
“You think you are better than everyone else. But you are nothing but a powerless little whore who needs to be put in her place. You are—”
I stopped hearing Mikhail the moment he started speaking. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying. He’s insulting my wife and that’s more than enough reason for me to knock his head off his shoulders.
His face is the only thing I can see in my narrowed field of vision. My fist is hurtling toward it—when, suddenly, he's gone.
I blink and look down. Mikhail is sprawled on the floor a few feet from Francia, his arms and legs limp.
It takes me a second to realize what happened. Glancing to my side, I see Yasha grinning and shaking out his knuckles. “Two for two,” he brags.
"You beat me to him," I realize, blinking out of my daze.
He's cheesing from ear-to-ear. "Sorry, brother. Hate to steal your thunder. But you already got to hit the son of a bitch once. I've been dying for my turn."
“I wasn’t going to hit him; I was going to kill him.”
“Don’t.” Konstantin stands over his son, his eyes pleading. “Please. Let me deal with my boy. I’ll get him out of here. Don’t kill him.”
Suddenly, Cora’s hand loops through my arm. She doesn’t say a word, but her touch is enough.
She’s okay.
We survived.
We’re here.
“Don’t let him near me,” I growl. “Keep your son away from me and my family. This is the last time I show you any mercy. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Konstantin lowers his head in a grim nod. Then he drags his son’s unconscious body out of my dining room.
57
CORA
This is over. We’re done.
I don’t let myself believe it until Konstantin has dragged Mikhail through the front door and it slams closed behind them.
Is this war finally over? Am I free?
Ivan is still staring at the door like he is waiting for the Sokolovs to run back in, armed to the teeth. It’s not such a crazy idea. They aren’t easy to put down.
But the house stays quiet.
I reach out and squeeze Ivan’s hand. I run my thumb over his thick knuckles. I soak up the warmth of his touch.
We made it.
We’re okay.
“Well, that went about as well as I thought it would,” I observe wryly.
Ivan turns back and starts to smile. Then he sees me—and his face falls.
I almost duck down. With a look like that on his face, someone must be behind me. Maybe Francia regained consciousness and is coming in for round two.
Then Ivan grips my chin and tilts my face up to the light. “You’re hurt.”
