The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

Yury and I are falling back toward the exit, but I still don’t see Emmanuel. I can’t call out to him, for obvious reasons.

I also can’t leave without him. Yury and I pause by the loading bay doors, peering through the gloom.

I see a glint of metal and Yury shouts, “Boss!” The gun fires louder than a cannon as Yury dives at me, knocking me sideways. The bullet hits him instead, right below the ribs. We both tumble over, Yury falling heavily over my legs. I jump to my feet, hauling him up as well, slinging his arm over my shoulder. Yury clutches his side, blood seeping through his fingers.

“Fuck, I always forget how much this hurts,” he groans.

I’m still searching for Emmanuel, cursing under my breath. I hear the shouts of cops searching through the pallets for us. Yury is reeling, his face pale and smoke streaked.

Finally Emmanuel darts out from the furthest aisle, his boots pounding on the dusty cement, firing back over his shoulder at the two cops hot on his heels. I provide cover fire, driving them back while Emmanuel grabs Yury’s other arm. We duck out of the warehouse, sprinting back to the car with Yury limp and reeling between us.

Emmanuel drives this time, while I pull my shirt over my head and press it hard against Yury’s side.

“How’d the cops get there the exact same time as us?” Yury groans.

“They didn’t,” I say, shaking my head grimly.

Emmanuel glances back over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in confusion.

“That’s their fucking stash,” I say. “It wasn’t stolen out of the police locker. They moved it.”

Yury’s mouth makes a comical “o” of surprise as comprehension sweeps over his face.

I say it out loud anyway, just so we’re all on the same page.

“We couldn’t find the new supplier, because there isn’t one. The cops are the supplier.”

I take Yury to my father’s house so his private physician can dig the bullet out of his side.

“You again,” Dr. Bancroft says, gruffly. “What is this, the fourth time?”

“Only the third,” Yury groans, sighing gratefully as Dr. Bancroft shoots a hefty load of Demerol into his arm. “Second time doesn’t count though—that was only an ex-girlfriend.”

“That’s the bullet that almost killed you,” I remind him.

“Yeah, well,” Yury shrugs. “She was pretty pissed.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

When I see the name on the screen, my heart jolts like it just got hit with a defibrillator. It’s Clare.

The message is short and to the point.

You were right. I’m sorry.

I type back, still so excited at the sight of her name that my hands are shaking slightly.

What did you find?

I wait, my mouth too dry to swallow the lump in my throat.

I can see the three little dots that mean she’s composing her response. At last I read:

Emails. Lots of them.

Holy fucking shit. Clare found the evidence that could exonerate me. The problem is, I’m not just looking to clear my name. I’m looking to clear the slate—by wiping out her father and everyone else who conspired against me.

She’s still typing. In a moment, another message pops up:

I have them saved on a flash drive. I’ll give them to you—but you have to promise you won’t kill him.

I consider.

I don’t want to hurt Clare. But Valencia stole six months of my life. He orchestrated Roxy’s death, or at least collaborated in it. The Maguires won’t be satisfied with anything less than his head on a platter.

And most of all, he killed my son. That can never be forgotten or forgiven. Not even for Clare.

I type back:

I can’t promise that.

A moment later:

Then you don’t get the emails.

I want to strangle her, yet I can’t help smiling. My little bird has grown quite the spine in the time I’ve known her. Unconsciously, my hand steals into my pocket to feel the cool glass of the nightingale.

I type:

Where are you? I want to talk in person.

She replies:

Do I have to be kidnapped or drugged to meet with you?

Oh, she’s definitely in a feisty mood.

I’m sorry. That was for your own protection.

That’s the closest I’ve ever come to lying to Clare. The truth is that I couldn’t bear to say goodbye to her. I didn’t want her to see my face as I left her on that bed in the apartment that smelled like my favorite thing in the world.

Maybe Clare knows that because she doesn’t press on that particular point.

Instead, after a longer pause, she responds:

I can’t tonight. My father’s parading me around at some stupid gala.

I can almost hear the irritation in her voice, and I can perfectly picture the adorable scowl that creases her face when she’s annoyed.

I’ve watched the media circus since Clare returned home. Her parents have been giving carefully curated sound bites about “the lack of proper security in the prison system,” the “need for privatization,” and “the deep roots of organized crime that the district attorney will rip out of this city.” I’ve heard them say everything except how happy they are to have their daughter back.