The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

“That ‘circus’ got me re-elected,” my father says, coolly. “But he’s outlived his usefulness. No more trials—tell your officers to execute on sight.”

“I already have,” Parsons says.

I feel as if I’m not in my body, like I’m suspended above the room watching and listening as someone else. It’s all so surreal. I never could have imagined myself in this position a week ago. This man was at my birthday party! He brought me a card with purple sparkles all over the front. God, I was so naïve.

“Will the Irish back down once we’ve gelded the Bratva?” my father asks.

“They want revenge. I don’t think they believe it was Constantine anymore.”

There’s a pause as my father muses. Then he says, “Then we’ll have to find a scapegoat.”

“Another one, you mean,” Parsons laughs.

“Who?”

It’s Parson’s turn to pause.

“The cousin,” he says at last. “He’s also outlived his usefulness.”

I look at Constantine, but his eyes drill into Emmanuel’s.

“You were the source,” he says in a cold, ruthless voice that makes me shiver. “You told them about the alliance. And you ordered the wine.”

Emmanuel hangs his head and doesn’t speak.

To Yury, Constantine says, “Bring Parsons to me. I will deal with Emmanuel.” He looks my way. “Out of respect for Clare, I’ll leave Valencia’s reckoning to the Irish.”

Yury nods, shooting one last look at Emmanuel, torn between repulsion and sorrow.

“Take Clare to a safe house,” Constantine says, standing. “I don’t want her injured.”

No. No!

“Constantine, I want to stay with you.” I get to my feet. I won’t leave him again.

He turns to me. “Do not defy me in front of my men, Clare.”

There will be rules in this new world of mine, and if I stay I choose that life.

I put my hands on his shoulders.

“You want me in this world, Constantine?”

He nods. “You know there’s nothing I want more.”

“Then let me stay.”

Slowly, he shakes his head and cups my jaw. He leans in closer so only I can hear him. “When I touch you, I don’t want you to know what my hands have done. I don’t want what’s between us tainted by my work and the life I live.” He swallows hard. “I want our life together to be all ours.”

I nod, sudden emotion washing over me.

“I’ll give you that,” I whisper.

Constantine opens his mouth to say something else, but it’s drowned out by an explosion that deafens us all.

Chapter 23

Constantine

An explosion rockets through the hotel, shaking the building.

Instinctively, I dive on top of Clare, knocking her to the ground, covering her with my body.

This moment of distraction is all Emmanuel needs to escape. He bolts in the direction of the kitchens, sprinting off like his life depends on it, which it absolutely fucking does.

The Irish have likewise vanished, with a coordination and speed that tells me they’re not at all surprised at the sudden blast. In fact, I’d bet my pinky finger they’re the ones who set it.

The Maguires have never been patient. Apparently, Connor has no intention of seeing Valencia behind bars before he exacts his revenge—he wants it here and now, tonight.

When it seems that no second explosion is imminent, I pick Clare up off the floor, smoothing her hair back out of her eyes, holding her face steady between my hands so I can look into her eyes and be sure she isn’t injured. Her eyes are wide open and terrified, but the pupils are even, no sign of concussion, despite the force of the blast that slapped us like an invisible hand.

The air is full of smoke and screams.

Holding tight to her hand I murmur, “Follow me.”

People are fleeing in all directions, chaotic and frenzied. A man slams into Clare, almost knocking her over. I seize him by his lapel and fling him away from her, snarling, “Don’t fucking touch her!” I stiff-arm the next two people before they can bowl her over. My petite little bird would be trampled in minutes without me by her side. I tuck her under my arm, close against my side, as we shoulder our way through the crowd.

Gunfire breaks out in the garden where Clare and I were entangled such a short time ago. Pulling her over to the windows, I peer through. The Irish are shooting at Chief Parsons and several officers in formal clothes. They’re trying to get to Valencia, but slippery eel that he is, he’s crawling back through a tangled maze of rose bushes, his tuxedo torn by the thorns and his bow tie askew. Connor Maguire roars with rage, only to take a bullet to the shoulder a moment later, dropping him from view.

Valencia is fleeing in the same direction as Emmanuel. I’m torn between my desire to get Clare to safety and my need to wrap this up once and for all.

Clare looks up at me.