The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

“The man was skinny, shorter than me, but an adult with crow’s feet around his eyes, and thinning hair. He was terrified. I had never seen a grown man beg and cry. He whined like a little girl, sobbed, offered us anything if we’d spare his life. Truth be told, he disgusted me.”

Clare watches me, her chest barely rising and falling with her breathing.

“My father said, ‘Shoot him.’ I pointed the gun. Squeezed the trigger. I was surprised how small a hole it made in his chest. I thought it wouldn’t kill him, that I’d have to do it again. But he slumped forward and after a few minutes he died.”

Clare finally exhales, a long, sighing sound not unlike the last breath of the dying man. I remember that sound clearly. Also, the scuffed shoes he wore on his feet. And how he had a nick on his chin, like he’d cut himself shaving that morning.

“You were a child,” Clare says. “You had no choice.”

I look her in the eye, unflinching.

“I had a choice,” I say. “There was only one finger on that trigger.”

Clare’s head gives an almost imperceptible shake.

“Do you hate him?” she says.

She means my father.

“Of course not.”

She frowns slightly. “You said my father was a liar and a killer. That he caused Roxy’s death.”

“What of it?”

“Isn’t your father the same?”

I snort, starting the car engine.

“This isn’t a battle of good against evil, Clare. There is no good and evil. There’s everyone with me and everyone against me. You can guess which side your father falls on. I’m giving you a chance to be with me instead. Because you don’t want to be standing by your father when I pour napalm on his head.”

Chapter 10

Clare

Constantine is absolutely adamant that my father killed Roxy. There’s not a doubt in his mind that my father is guilty. I, on the other hand, am not convinced.

I tell myself that he isn’t going to hurt my father, not really. We’ll find out who did kill her and why, and when we do, he’ll have to give up his relentless pursuit and his desire for vengeance against my father.

Constantine makes a phone call, and though he’s speaking in rapid Russian, I’m pretty sure he’s conversing with one of his soldiers. I hear that tone he has when he’s barking orders.

It brings a flush to my chest and neck that embarrasses and alarms me. Why on earth does he have this effect on me, when I don’t want it, when intellectually I hate it? He’s a criminal, a brute. He’s done outrageous things to me and threatened worse. I should despise him.

Yet I find myself pressing my thighs tightly together to try to ease the throbbing between them, turning my face toward the window so he won’t see the color in my cheeks.

“See you there,” Constantine says in English, ending the call.

We’re driving along the crowded streets of Desolation in another borrowed car, this one with tinted windows. I wonder what it’s like to live like this day in and day out, the life of a nomad. Nowhere to put down roots, no real place to call home. Tonight, he might go back to the sex club, or camp out at a friend’s house. He probably has a safe house or somewhere he can take us. It’s clear he has no lack of resources at his disposal. But will he ever have a place where he can really settle down? Will he ever be able to walk the streets in broad daylight again?

Will I?

“You ever been to a fight, little bird?” Constantine asks.

“A… fight? What do you mean?”

His lips quirk up like they sometimes do when I say or do something that amuses him, which honestly happens fairly often.

“A fight, Clare. Like people hitting each other.”

“For sport?”

He shrugs, clearly unconcerned with the concept of people hitting each other for other reasons. This doesn’t surprise me, but it’s still unsettling. His casual view of brutal violence unnerves me.

“No,” I say honestly. “I’ve never seen any kind of fight before, in a ring, or otherwise.” I stroke my chin thoughtfully, sifting through my memories. “Well… I mean, one time when I was in seventh grade, a few boys got in a tussle over something and got into a fight, but it was broken up before anyone really got hurt.”

“They fought over you?”

I stare at him, agape. “Over me?”

He takes a turn, his eyes still on the road, but he tenses a little. “You act as if the very concept’s preposterous.”

“But it is.”

He reaches for my knee and gives me a none-too-gentle squeeze. “That’s enough of that.”

Of what? I want to ask, but don’t. My throat feels clogged and my nose tingles, and I’m not exactly sure why.

He doesn’t have to say it aloud, but he’d fight for me. There’s no question. He threatened one of the men already, and he defended me in front of his father.