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Daphne rolls out of the way just as Brennan collapses to the floor. I want to reach for her, to pull her to me and take her away from here, but this dumb motherfucker tries to grab her ankles.
“You stupid mudak.”
The last thread on my self-control snaps.
I don’t even need my gun. He sure as shit doesn’t need his, which I make abundantly clear by smashing his wrist against the marble tile with one hand and breaking his fingers open with the other.
Brennan screams.
It only fuels my bloodlust.
I don’t have anything to say to him, so I don’t. I just pin him down and beat the ever-living shit out of him. I don’t want to recognize his face by the time I’m done. Hell, by the time I’m finished, dental records won’t be enough. He’ll be a smear on the tile at best.
I just beat.
And beat.
And beat him into a fucking pulp.
He’s limp and purple when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I almost rip it away, but something stops me.
“Pasha.” I hear her voice through the blood-red haze. “My love. He’s done.”
He’s definitely not moving, that’s for fucking sure.
Daphne gives me the space to draw air into my lungs and collect the more humane part of myself. She also offers me my gun.
I look at her fingers wrapped around the grip.
I don’t know when she truly became Bratva. But I can’t deny she’s one of us now.
And I am so fucking proud of that.
Of her.
I take my gun and don’t even think about what’s next. I just point and shoot without even looking. One tiny exhale ends it. Scott Brennan is now, officially, dead and done.
I rise off his corpse and wipe my bloodied hands on my coat. “Goddamn it, Brennan. It didn’t have to go this way.”
“Yes, it did.” Daphne stares down at him, her voice calm but cold. “He was a sick man. Not even a man, really. This… this needed to happen.”
“As does this.”
I freeze. So does she. Neither one of us moves as Stewart steps closer to her, his gun poised at her head.
I manage to spare a stunned glance at Arlo. Didn’t he have the Hamishes on lock?
Judging by the look on his face, he did.
Stewart is just crazy enough to pull this shit out of thin air.
“I’m getting out of here,” he snarls. “I don’t care what happens to them. But I’m getting out of here, alive. You hear me?”
Again, I glance at Arlo. He puts his index finger in place over the trigger.
But then Stewart steps behind Daphne and uses her as his human shield. “Nuh-uh. You’re not gonna pull some Bratva mob shit on me, Chekhov. Not if you want her alive.”
Ophelia squeaks from whatever corner she’s curled herself into. She doesn’t even try to plead with her husband to spare their daughter.
