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Leon gives a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”
He yanks Igor up by his shirt, and the man screams. I can’t tell where the knife went when he was stabbed, but it hit some part of his junk if the slowly spreading patch of blood is anything to go by. He hobbles, and each step conjures a moaning, retching sound from his throat.
Leon shoves him again, pitiless and cold.
I can hardly believe it’s over. Mackenzie and Kirill are safe, and Grigoriy is never going to hurt anyone again. I imagine the news reaching Russia, and the huge fucking impact it’s going to have on their society, but that’s not our problem. I expect there will be some people over there who will want to shake our hands. I just hope there are no other repercussions, but then there won’t be as long as no one finds out what we did.
It means we’ll have to be very careful that, if we do circulate those pictures of Grigoriy dead, naked, and flaccid, we don’t let them be traced back to us in any way. No one can know we did this. Our Duchess can’t be the further target of any of the Stepanov Bratva who might remain active in Russia.
It’s the reason we can’t let these two men live. It’s clear from their eyes that they think they’re getting away with it, though. They played their part. Mackenzie said the one with the weird pale eyes—Vadim—came on her, and that information alone makes me want to kill him.
As for Igor, well, Kirill gets to have the final say in that. The man has been a thorn in Kirill’s side for as long as I’ve known him.
We leave the cabin, and head toward the vehicles.
Sunlight hits like disinfectant, washing off the grime of that cabin. Fuck, I’m glad to be out of there. Mackenzie is walking, but she leans on me the entire time. I glance over to Tino. He’s noticeably limping, his face tight with pain. He must have hurt himself when he went for the gun.
As we near the vehicles, Vadim stumbles. The man guarding him holds him up, but Vadim’s eyes roll back in his head. His face pales suddenly and alarmingly. His body slumps again, and this time the man lets go as Vadim hits the ground hard.
His guard bends over him and rolls him onto his front. He’s pale, sweaty, and mumbling incoherent bullshit.
The medic who was treating Kirill jogs over and squats by Vadim. He looks him over. “He’s lost a lot of blood and is in a lot of pain. He’s probably also gone into shock.”
“Is he going to die?” Mackenzie straightens, her arms wrapped around her waist as if hugging herself.
Her voice is hopeful. I glance at Tino, and his jaw tightens.
“Without treatment,” the medic says, “yes, probably, but it will take a long time. He might survive.”
“You thinking of leaving him out here, Duchess?” Tino asks.
She purses her lips. “I was, but if he might survive, then no.”
The medic confirms her fears. “If someone found him, got him medical help, then yes, he might still live.”
“I don’t want him to live,” she whispers. “He did things to me… and to Kirill.”
The thought of this man touching her makes me want to tear him limb from limb, to rip off his head and spit down his neck.
But Tino gets there before me.
“Duchess, your word is my command.” Tino takes the gun he is holding and aims it at Vadim.
“Come on, baby. You don’t need to watch,” I say with my arm around her. “Let’s get you checked out and see how Kirill is doing.”
She nods, and I take her hand and lead her away. The shot rings out, and she flinches and draws a sharp breath but says nothing.
Igor is staring around him while Diego pushes him along, and I can tell he’s thinking about making a run for it. He won’t get very far, the fucking idiot. He’s still got a knife sticking out of his balls. The sight brings on a wave of faintness, and I look away, but I keep my peripheral vision on him. Waiting for when he tries to make that move.
The door to one of the vehicles opens, and Kirill steps out. His nose is bloodied, and he’s still ashen, but he isn’t as checked out as he was. His eyes have something of his soul back in them.
“Hey, man,” I greet him. Then, not sure of what the fuck I can say, I lower my gaze.
Mack said they did things to him. How bad? I’m not sure I want to know.
“Is he dead?” he asks.
I know he means his father.
