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Chapter Twenty-Nine
RONAN
“Do you not want to think this through?” Liam looks like he will throw up and for good reasons.
I’m driving as fast as I can to the Bratva headquarters, and no matter how many times he has asked me to reconsider my plan, I have refused to listen.
I don’t want to fucking listen.
You should listen, a part of me is screaming. But all I can think of is Olivia in the hands of Damien. The man is a beast.
“Ronan, slow down,” Liam coughs, “You will die before you get a chance to save her.”
I slam on the brakes, and he almost bumps his head against the dashboard.
“Can you stop fucking talking?” I growl, hating the distraction his voice has been since we left the prison, “I don’t want to fucking calm down.”
He nods. “What is the plan?” He sits straight.
I shrug, “Isn’t that obvious?”
“Killing everyone involved, and by that, I mean you, me, and Olivia? If that’s your plan, then yes, it’s obvious.”
“Don’t fuck around with me,” I click my teeth.
“Then answer the question, Ronan, what is your plan?”
“We go in there and…” I pause because I have no fucking plan aside from driving down there.
It’s a nightclub, which mean they have yet to start full business at this time of day. Still, business is always ongoing, which means there will be activity at this time of day, too.
“You don’t have a plan, and you want to walk into their turf just like that? You want to hand yourself so easily without even being sure you can fucking find her there,” he sounds pissed.
“If you have something, fucking say it. I have no fucking time to waste thinking about…” The ringing of my phone cuts me off. I pull the phone out of my pocket. “You have two minutes to think of your grand plan.”
I stare at the screen.
It’s Damien Ivanov.
The fucking nerves of this man.
“I have something that you might want,” Damien drawls, “Or rather, someone.”
“I will kill you, Ivanov,” I holler into the phone, and Damien chuckles.
“Take a number,” he snorts, “I will let you know when it’s your turn.”
“Where is she?” I demand to know.
“She could be dead, buried, and forgotten; it’s up to you,” he answers, and I can just picture his usual carelessness when handling human lives.
“If you touch her…”
“Blah blah blah,” he yawns, “I’m being kind to you,” he pauses and I swear I want to hold him by the neck and squeeze until I watch life vacate his eyes.
I breathe, saying nothing and waiting for the son of a bitch to explain himself.
“You can come and get her, on the condition that you do not marry Sofia.”
