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Demyen returns the grin and rubs my hip. “Do you promise?”
I go still.
Then, a beat later, I nod.
Because yeah, I do. I really do want forever with him.
I am Demyen’s. Demyen is mine.
Forever.
29
DEMYEN
“Identities confirmed?”
Mako’s voice crackles through the walkie-talkie. “Confirmed. This is the spot.”
I scan the abandoned factory through my binoculars and count at least seven Yakuza guards strolling the eastern perimeter facing me. “Head count?”
“Ten on the north side. Fifteen between south and west.”
“And we’ve got seven here on the east. I’m guessing double the total on the inside.”
“Roger that.”
Raizo, you idiot. Had he continued to attack my warehouses, I’d have been irritated but strategically patient. Had he kept attacking my men, I’d have been pissed and taken it out on his men as well, but that patience wouldn’t change.
But Raizo Watanabe chose to be a goddamn barbarian and attack small children.
So “patience” can get fucked.
It’s time for war.
It didn’t really hit me in a visceral way until I tried taking Willow to the school a few days after our cabin vacation. I swore to her that the second she felt afraid, I’d scoop her up and take her where she felt safe. That seemed to work, because she clung to my hand like she wanted to break my fingers, but she still managed to walk to her old classroom.
The fear in her classmates’ eyes is what got me.
No child should look that terrified. That worn.
That traumatized.
And there should never, ever be taped-over bullet holes in any child’s classroom.
So that’s why I’m sitting in my Rezvani, gleefully counting the number of Yakuza assholes who are about to take their last breath.
Behind me, parked in more tactical SUVs and polishing their weapons, is every man of my Bratva, plus a few allies from the local Italian families who are just as pissed about the shooting as I am.
“Movement on the north slope,” one of Don Fontinelli’s men sounds off over the radio. “Looks like a group of women.”
“Fucking hell. Mako,” I call to Pavel’s stand-in, “you getting this?”
“I heard. Can confirm. I see a handful of them over here, too.”
“We’re not here for them,” Don LaGrezzio’s gravelly voice interjects.
“I know.” It takes what’s left of my patience to not snap at the Italian. “I didn’t count on Raizo keeping his ‘merchandise’ this long after his last sales push. We’re still going in, but we’ll need to adjust.”
