The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

He is playing chicken.

I wanted to claw his face to ribbons.

The buzzing coming from the Bentley became louder, and I knew they were close. Sam stretched his arm outside his open window and fired two shots.

Time and space hung above our heads, suspended.

I heard a scream. A moan. Then footsteps over damp concrete, the crunching of the snow underneath someone’s feet. Someone running. Fleeing. Sobbing.

“You can come up now,” Sam murmured, stone-cold. Numb, I slid back to my seat, buckled up, and moved a shaky hand over my raven hair.

Sam slowed his vehicle, and I noticed he was following a man. I only saw the back of him. A scrawny figure with blond messy hair and a prominent limp. He wore baggy sweatpants and matching hoodie. The glow-in-the-dark type. Sam directed his gun at his head, holding it steadily.

“Are you going to shoot him?” I whispered.

“Only cowards shoot people in the back, Nix. I’ll shoot him in the face. Respectfully, of course.”

I didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or purposely crass. Either option seemed completely unsuitable for the ears of a lady. But that was the essence of Sam Brennan. He would take a bullet for me without even thinking twice about it but trash-talk to the moon and back in my presence.

The man stumbled on the uneven cobblestone of the sidewalk, trying to pick up his pace when he heard us driving by his side. It was futile. Sam had already caught him. The Monster was now playing with its food.

The man’s shoulders quaked, and he sniffled loudly.

“Please.” I put a hand on Sam’s arm, the one that wasn’t holding the gun. “Don’t make things worse.”

He ignored me, passing the man and parking in front of him, blocking his way.

Our victim stopped. I leaned forward, taking a good look at him. Sam must’ve killed his armed companion.

The man was not a man at all.

It was a boy.

Of fourteen. Maybe fifteen at most.

Gangly, long-limbed and wide-eyed, his pasty face sprinkled with acne.

My heart lurched and twisted behind my ribcage. He was obviously a minor. Maybe even an innocent one. I imagined he was born and initiated into the Bratva. It was hard to believe he would choose such a life for himself.

Sam got out of the car, blocking my view with his body, still protecting me, his gun aimed at the boy’s head. The boy dropped to his knees, raising his arms in the air in defeat. He didn’t seem to even realize there was a second person in the car.

“P-p-please,” he sputtered, weeping so openly, so loudly, it felt like he tore my chest in two and watched while I bled out. “I didn’t want to do this. I begged them not to. He was … I was … my father, I mean, put a gun to my head. I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t. You know what it’s like with dads like him. You know. You have one, too. You’re a Brennan.” He swallowed air, hiccupping, his face twisted in so much agony, it was hard to make out his features.

“You fucked up. Now it’s time to pay,” Sam ground out.

“No!” I gasped.

I shot out of the car, desperate to do something, anything to save this boy.

I tackled Sam without thinking, trying to bring him down to the ground with me. But he was much bigger and heavier than I was. It felt like slamming headfirst into a concrete wall. I flew backward from the impact, but Sam snaked his free arm around my waist, jerking me behind him, like the boy still posed a threat to me.

“Please, Sam, please.” I wrapped my arms around his chest and stomach and felt his muscles tensing against my fingertips through his shirt. A soft, barely audible groan escaped his lips. I took that as a sign.

“Please, he is just a boy. Young and misled. Like you were. If you don’t do this for yourself, do it for me. For what I did for your soldiers. For … for … for the chicken noodle soup!”

I held my breath, waiting for another stinging rejection and the pain that came with it. To my surprise, all I felt was a brief shudder passing through his torso. Goose bumps rose on my skin. I didn’t know why, but I felt this moment was monumental for both of us, though in very different ways.

“You have one thing going for you, and that is that I don’t want the fucking headache that comes with the territory of blowing your brains out in front of her.” Sam bared his teeth, lowering his gun just an inch.

I let out a relieved breath, feeling nauseous with relief.

My throat burned as I exhaled. I must’ve screamed bloody murder while we were being chased in the car.

“But I’m sending you with a message and a souvenir. The message is as follows: tell Vasily that I am going to have his head on a plate if he as much as tries to breathe in my direction again. Last time, I cut his face. Next time, I am going to decapitate him completely.”