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I’ll make sure he follows through.
The only reason why I don’t plow this SUV through Patterson’s living room is because I don’t know where Willow is. Rezvanis are built for war; Clara and I would be fine.
But Willow is everything to me. Tous. And she’s why I’m pulling into the driveway of Martin Patterson’s sad shack of adwelling as if I’m not imagining his skull becoming my new hood ornament.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I glare at the chipped and peeling paint on the side of the tiny house as we walk up. “This? Here? Is it even habitable?”
Clara keeps her eyes on the ground. I should probably ease up. It’s hard to do when I’m using every fiber of self-control to not lose my absolute shit.
I knock on the door. It’s incredibly tempting to punch the flimsy thing in.
It takes Martin long enough for me to consider just throwing Clara over my shoulder and tossing her back into the SUV. In my mind’s eye, it’d be nothing to smash a few windows in, grab the kid, and make for the hills.
But before I can make good on that daydream, the door swings open and Martin glares at me through the dusty screen door.
“The fuck do you want?” he snaps at me. Yet the second his eyes land on Clara, then the suitcase in my hand, he smirks. “It’s about damn time. Get your ass in the house?—”
“She’s not going anywhere,” I snarl, moving between her and the door before she takes another step toward him, “until you make good on your end.”
Martin eyes me as if he’s got any ground to stand on. He’s lucky I’m allowing him to stand upright as it is. “You’ll get your brother. Once I get my woman.”
“How about this?” I rip the screen door open and get in his face just so there’s no chance for miscommunication. “I’ll stand righthere while you go make a few calls. Once I receive confirmation that he’s out, we’ll consider the trade complete.”
He wants to have the upper hand. This is his house, his world, his rules. His woman and his child. I can see it plain on his face, clearer than the pathetic little mustache dusting his sweaty upper lip.
The sudden image of him putting his hands on Clara flashes through my mind.
Fuck this shit.
I’m about to bash his head against the doorway when he suddenly nods. “Fine.” He even gestures for us to come inside.
“Where’s Willow?” Clara asks. I don’t miss how meek she sounds.
Martin nods at a small hallway next to the dining area. “In her room, asleep. We just finished reading stories together.” He smiles, so goddamn smug that my breath hitches furiously.
What, do you want a fucking gold star? The Bare Minimum Award?
Clara immediately drops everything to go check on Willow. I don’t stop her. We’re here to do exactly that—make sureourdaughter is safe and sound.
Besides, Martin and I need to have a little chat.
He’s in the kitchen, texting someone on his phone. I listen to him make a quick call, though his side of the conversation is mostly grunts and affirmations. Either he’s on a recorded line, or the other end is so deeply embroiled into this mess that they don’t need any details.
Martin hangs up the phone, then stuffs it into his pocket. “It’s done.”
We’ll see.I’m not leaving until I get a text from Oleg. I don’t trust a word that comes from that man’s body, but Tolya’s freedom is the one thing he’ll never lie about.
“Before I go,” I say as I step into the kitchen, “we need to get a few things established.”
He holds up a hand. “Listen?—”
“No,youlisten.” I tighten my jaw. “And listen very carefully, because I will not repeat myself.”
I make sure he’s got nowhere to go. And I make sure to keep my voice low so his ears are the only ones to hear me. The only one who should ever be terrified in their own home is him.
“I have eyes on you. Everywhere you go, everything you do, will be reported to me. One wrong blink inmywoman’s direction, you’re done. One errant bruise onmykid’s body, you’re gone. You so much as raise your voice to pass the potatoes, you’re gone.”
Martin tries to square me off. “You can’t?—”
