The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

Then, sobbing, Emmanuel sits back on his heels saying, “Izvini, kuzen! I’m so sorry, cousin. They picked me up in a bar uptown. They beat me, tortured me. I was so blitzed, I didn’t know what I was saying. I never meant to tell. I should have confessed in the beginning when the mistake was small, when you could have forgiven me. I had no idea what they had planned. I did order the wine, but I swear to God, I didn’t know what it was for… I never thought they would dare…”

He kneels before me, head bowed.

“I accept any punishment,” he says. “Even if I have to pay with my life.”

This time, I comprehend in an instant.

Emmanuel did spill intel on the alliance, probably drunk and high, just like he said. Then Parsons and Valencia used that leverage to blackmail him. But he didn’t kill Roxy. He didn’t intentionally betray me.

Before I can open my mouth to speak, a shot rings out. Emmanuel’s expression of contrition turns to one of mild surprise. He looks down at his chest where blood spreads across his white dress shirt in a dark flood.

I turn to the doorway. Chief Parsons stands between the open double doors, the barrel of his gun still gently smoking.

“You’re welcome,” he says to me.

Then he points the gun right at my face.

“Unfortunately, you won’t have long to enjoy it.”

His finger curls on the trigger.

I lift my chin, ready to meet the fate that lies at the end of the road for all men like me.

The second shot rings out, and strangely, it’s Parsons who stumbles. He clutches his side, turning in shock and horror.

Clare shoots him twice more in the chest.

He tumbles to the ground, his gun skittering away across the tiles, disappearing under the stove on which the fires have finally been extinguished.

Clare is still holding the gun in both hands, her arms rigid, her teeth bared.

I have to pry the gun out of her hands and pull her against my chest before she can take a full breath, at which her teeth rattle together like castanets.

“Oh my God, oh my God!” she cries. “What did I do!”

“You saved my life,” I say.

I can hear sirens approaching from all sides. I no longer hear the Irish shooting out in the garden. I don’t know if they were all killed, if they fled, or if they’re still hunting the grounds for Valencia.

At this moment, I really don’t care. All that concerns me is getting Clare out of here.

Swiftly, I wipe the prints from her gun, and then, with a napkin wrapped around my own fingers, I press it into Emmanuel’s limp hand and fire twice more. The sprinklers may wash away the gunshot residue, but I don’t want to take any chances.

Then I seize Clare by the arm and we run.

Epilogue

Clare

Time lessens pain, and my break with my past and all that transpired is no exception. With my father’s death came my mother’s unraveling. She played the part of the mourning victim for as long as she could muster, until she simply stopped.

I think the truth about my father’s guilt and his lack of concern for anyone in his life except himself helped. With her cool dismissal of her past, and the way she almost painlessly took up the next stage of her life, I couldn’t help but wonder if she knew what he was up to all along.

If only I’d been so wise.

“What are you thinking, ptitsa?”

I look out over the smoky mountain view outside our window, twiddling with the thick band on my finger. It was only a week ago we took our vows, a full year after the scandal that broke my family. I begged Constantine to take us to his native land to start a new life together, and he didn’t have to be asked twice. I’m leaning against his thick, muscled body, comforted by the weight of his arm on me.

“I wonder how much my mother knew about my father’s plans.”

“I’d guess quite a bit, if you were to ask me.” He doesn’t change the subject or chide me for bringing this up for the umpteenth time. He allows me as much time to process and grieve as I need. Constantine understands the complexities of a painful past.

I roll over toward him, toward his bare chest, and smile.

“Thank you.”

A corner of his lips quirks up, and he brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheek. “For what?”

“For letting me talk about this wherever and whenever I need to. For not telling me to let it go by now.”

“I wouldn’t,” he says simply. “Your past is who you are, and I have no need to fear it.”

His pragmatic view of life is one of the things I love best about him.

“I will,” he says, with a teasing lilt of his voice, “suggest a form of distraction from time to time.”