I grew up here.
This is Marco’s bullshit. In order to inflict mental torture, he thinks my childhood home is the optimal environment. It must be exhausting to keep coming up with torture methods instead of simply shooting someone in the head.
I run my fingers over the cuffs. They aren’t cheap, kinky ones or shoddy antiques. If the support beam was built out of brick, I might have a chance of smashing it apart, but otherwise, they’re too sturdy to break.
I slam the side of the handcuffs against the support beam, attempting to hit the part with the rivet. It may be impossible, but I’m not going to wait around to be tortured.
The house vibrates as I jab the metal against the beam. It shouldn’t surprise me when somebody comes through the front door, but it pisses me off that it’s Marco.
He walks up to me but keeps four feet between us.
“I bet with all of your careful plotting and bravado, you didn’t see yourself ending up here,” he says. His voice is casual, but his arms are stiff and all of his weight is on his right leg like he’s prepared to bolt. He takes a few strides to his right and points downward. “The wood is still stained with your mother’s blood here. And since that’s the smaller bedroom, I assume that was where you used to sleep.”
We stare at each other. I force a smile.
“If you thought bringing me back here would cause me to break down, you haven’t figured me out,” I say. “I’m more likely to get upset over a bad steak.”
“I also heard rumors that you killed your father,” he continues. “Which could explain why you had no qualms about killing mine.”
“I had no qualms about killing your father because he was insignificant.”
His nostrils flare. “You’re not going to deny killing your own father?”
“I killed a man who no longer had control over his emotions and was a liability to the Bratva,” I say.
He’s seconds away from snapping. If I can get him close enough, I can eliminate him completely.
“I understand why it might be shocking to you, but I wasn’t dependent on my father. Maybe I should have waited a couple of years, so you could grow a spine and kill the son of a bitch yourself.”
Marco charges forward. His fist slams into my jaw. The pain hits like a firework—condensed, then rapidly spreading throughout my face. The taste of blood slips over my tongue.
He takes several steps back as I swivel my jaw.
“How’s that for spine?” he challenges.
I swallow some of the blood. “I’ve had girls do worse damage while blowing me. If you think it shows spine to hit a prisoner while both of his hands are behind his back, your daddy didn’t teach you shit about being a man.”
“If I wanted to be a man, I’d be in the other room with Allison rather than here with you,” he says.
I sneer at him. “Your bullshit isn’t going to work on me. Allison is having dinner with her parents tonight. I’ve had people checking up on her.”
“Yes,” he says. “I know. I also knew that she’d come running if she heard there were explosions at your house. And she did. It’s quite admirable how willing she was to run straight into your burning house.”
I scrutinize his face. “You’re lying.”
“But you don’t need to worry. I had one of my men pull her out. Dressed as a firefighter, of course. You’d be amazed at who people are willing to trust as long as they’re in uniform.”
He’s not lying. I see it in his eyes.
He’s not fucking lying.
I lurch up onto my feet. “I’m going to kill you.”
“You talk about spine and cowardice, but all that courage didn’t do shit for you or your girlfriend.” He turns away from me, walking away. I lunge forward, the house trembling as the handcuffs jab against the support beam. “Thank you, though, for the idea about the jaw-breaking blowjobs. I’ll enjoy that.”
I hurl myself forward over and over again, even after he’s left. My shoulders feel like they’re ready to dislocate, but I keep going.
I’ll take this whole house down to get to Ally before he does.
* * *
My shoulders are burning. My arms are burning. My wrists are burning. My body is a wildfire, but I keep hurling myself forward. If there were a sharp object within reach of my hands, I’d start cutting off fingers to get my hand through the handcuff.
And it’s not for my sake, which is a change of pace.
Mariya’s Revenge is a testament to my work ethic that I can keep out in the open. The Bratva is a private monument to what I can do unfettered. I keep my enemies at heel and the police at bay, a whole city staring up at me like a frightened animal, unable to stop me from doing what I want. I care about my employees and my men, but in the end, it’s always been about me.
And I’d let it all collapse into dust and rubble to get Ally out of this.
I’d give up my freedom if it would ensure that she was happy. She’s given me more happiness and more purpose than I’ve ever had with anything else. She doesn’t deserve any of this violence.
We all have to die one day. I’d rather give it up for her than anything else. For her and our child.
I pause, hearing a rumble. I’ve tried to call out to Ally, but she’s either unconscious or Marco has her somewhere out of hearing.
A car door slams shut.
I press my back against the support beam. The door swings open. When Marco walks back in, his expression is composed. If I’m going to goad him into a fight, I’ll have to get far enough under his skin that he ends up cutting open his own flesh.
“You know, I respected your
