Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
The sound detonated inside me. In that split second, the room contracted. Time distorted into silence. The man who twisted my nightmares and the man who rescued me finally collided.
Unable to latch a finger into the constraint at his neck, Lorenzo reached a fist behind him to attack Lachlan’s jaw.
My husband took every hit, predator against protector. One fought for obsession. The other fought for love. Only one would leave this room alive.
56
LACHLAN
I hadn’t felt my heart beat this way since my first major league game. But this wasn’t a game. This was worse. Natasha’s broken whisper from after Valentine’s hung in the air.
The fake Italian thrashed in my grip, trying to claw the rope from his throat. I dug my boots into the floor and snarled, dragging him back. He rammed an elbow into my ribs. Pain cracked sharp through me. Didn’t matter.
Couldn’t matter.
I’d let him out of my sight once. Let him live to terrorize and pillage another day.
And I couldn’t let the pain bother me.
I would not lose this fight. Not to him. Not today.
Lorenzo surged, throwing his head back, skull smashing into my brow. White burst into my vision. My grip slipped. He spun, feral, throwing a jab. I ducked—dove my fist into his ribs. Felt cartilage shift.
He lunged again. I blocked, forearm to forearm; the jolt numbed my arm. He kicked my knee, and I buckled. Twisting into it, I dragged him down. We hit the wood floor. His hands clawed for my eyes. Mine for his throat.
“She will be mine!” His knuckles crashed against my lip, splitting it.
“Never!” I slammed my forehead against his.
Nose cracked, blood sprayed from Lorenzo.
He laughed, laughed through it. The sick bastard. His fist landed on my cheekbone, hot shock blinding me for a second. But I shifted weight, rolled us, pinning him beneath me.
He wriggled, slippery with sweat and blood, snarling like an animal. His hand darted for a fallen pistol—an empty click. He was out.
It came down to this. Him. Me. Bare hands.
He drove his knee into my gut. I grunted, hammering my elbows into his jaw. Once. Twice. His head snapped back. Still, he came at me, teeth bared, spittle flying. His fingers clawed my throat.
I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Training and fury fused into instinct. I twisted, shoved the rope back around his neck, my forearms locked like iron. I pulled. Harder. Harder.
He thrashed, fists raining wild blows against my head and shoulders. I tightened. Every ounce of strength in me poured into it. His face reddened, purpled. His movements slowed.
Then—stilled.
I didn’t release. Not until the monster who had haunted Natasha drew his last breath.
The rope slackened. My chest heaved. My mouth pooled with blood, vision spinning. My knuckles were raw. My body was wrecked. But she was alive.
And she was watching. I had killed for her.
57
SIMONA
“Hey!” I bolted up the path, screaming to remove the attention from my father, who crouched opposite a Range Rover. The windows smashed above him. He was jamming a magazine into his gun when he and Dyadya Vassili spotted me.
The bullets stopped.
“Take me!” I shouted.
My father glared at me, the look darker than night as I lifted my hands. I did a circle in the nippy air, my stilettos sauntering straight through smeared blood.
“And me …” came a faintly Scottish shout from the distance.
Chyort. I glanced back. Jake sprinted toward me, blinking as if he hadn’t thought this through.
Muttering curses, I pinched the bridge of my nose. He was supposed to stay in the car and ring his father. The same father who finally resembled a vicious Scot when he phoned us during our drive. Big Brody had gotten word from Lachlan over an hour ago—prepare the clan. Although armed, they lacked a destination.
We’d promised to fix this slaughterhouse—one river of blood, instead of two—before they arrived.
But by we, I’d meant me.
I’d fix this.
Unable to rely on Baran in his grief, I’d given Vassilievich an assignment: dig into Lorenzo Ferri’s family history. Find a connection. Vass had been committed to watching Mia and persuaded another classmate to take on the assignment. The student had uncovered much, including Lorenzo’s mother’s past mental illness.
He’d learned that Lorenzo’s biological father had beaten her in a rage after watching a UFC match, featuring Vassili and Louis Gotti. He’d lost money betting on the fight, and she’d paid the price with bruises and preterm labor. That incident had resulted in his father’s imprisonment, even though she had not wanted to press charges many times before.
Vass’s classmate also found that Lorenzo’s mother had almost lost custody of him when he was two for medication noncompliance. And there was a trail of Child Protective Services cases, abuse and neglect, but it appeared that Lorenzo’s mom fled from state to state, evading accountability, and had plenty of time to fill the eight-year-old’s head with more lies before her suicide.