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His face is puffy, his jowls hanging low. But it’s not grief that has him out of sorts.
It’s that he was woken from a deep sleep to the unpleasant news that his get-out-of-jail-free card was dead.
“Otets…” Feliks places a calming hand on his father’s shoulder. Despite the fact that he and Natascha were twins, he’s always been the exact opposite of his sister in terms of temperament. Calm and quiet, content to linger on the periphery. Which is whyit’s been so easy to forget him. “Otets, we should take her body home.”
Rolan shakes his son off and rounds back on me with a snarl. “She is your wife, Arsen. She should be inside your house in a place of honor.”
He’s doing a good job of playing the grieving father, but I know him too well to buy the act. His sorrow isn’t for Natascha; it’s for everything he’ll lose now that she is no longer Arsen Adamov’s wife.
“You should have protected her,” he accuses when I stand still and silent in the face of his wrath. “What kind of man—what kind ofpakhan—can’t protect his own woman?”
Before I can respond, Dominik beats me to it. “Careful, old man. You’re treading into dangerous waters.”
Rolan’s wide eyes teeter from Dominik to me. “This is a conspiracy, isn’t it? You planned this. You’ve always wanted to get rid of her. This is a ploy to get her out of the way so you can fuck the whore you got pregnant!”
This time, I move before Dominik does.
In an instant, I have Rolan pinned to the wall by his fat neck. I can feel his pulse thundering against my palm.
He wasn’t wrong about the purpose of this shed. It’s seen many interrogations and the soundproofing is excellent.
No one would hear him scream.
Feliks takes a half-step forward, more out of obligation than any real desire to insert himself in the fray. He has the good sense to shrink back a moment later when I scowl in his direction.
Rolan’s eyes bug out as I squeeze his neck.
“Too far,” Dominik warns behind me.
He’s talking to Rolan, but I hear it like he’s saying it to me instead. I know how it looks—I’m defending my surrogate’s honor. There are already rumors about my relationship with Laila, and shit like this will only validate them.
Regretfully, I release him before I choke the life from his lungs. He collapses against the wall, gasping.
“You’re reeling from Natascha’s death, Rolan, so I won’t hold this outburst against you.” I swallow down the rage still swirling just under the surface. “But believe me when I tell you that I take my duties aspakhanvery seriously. She was under my protection, and the men responsible for Natascha’s death will be held accountable.”
Rolan massages his throat, casting Dominik a dirty glare before peering back at me. “If you were protecting her, how did the bastards who did this get away?”
“If you’d bothered to stop long enough to ask the important questions instead of spewing accusations, I could’ve told you that one of the shooters is sitting a few feet away in one of my cells.”
Rolan and Feliks both stiffen like dogs on the scent. “One of them is here?”
Wordlessly, I gesture for Dom to bring the man out.
Within seconds, a wiry man with a stringy, blood-crusted beard is kneeling in front of us. Dominik keeps hold of him by the scruff of his neck.
Rolan spits at the man’s feet. “Why target my daughter?”
“We have reason to believe thismudakworks for Alessandro Calcagno,” I inform him.
The man doesn’t even look at Rolan. His eyes are narrowed at me as he vomits a stream of Italian at us. I don’t have to speak the language to know he isn’t exactly singing our praises.
Rolan backhands the bastard. The crack of flesh on flesh resounds throughout the stifled air of the shed. “Italian scum. Speak English so we can hear what you have to say.”
“Coglione!”
That translates easily enough. Rolan whips out his gun and presses it against the man’s forehead. “Say that to me again, and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”
“Otets—!”
