I’m aware of every motion in the house. Every guard, every staff member, every coming and going. It’s all a swirl of activity in my head. They’re like little astral objects flitting around the solar system.
And all of it orbits her.
My wife. My Dasha.
Ever since the attack five days ago, she’s become the center of my universe.
“You can stop staring at me, you know,” she says, stretched out on the couch and peeking at me through one eye. “I am trying to nap.”
“I’m being quiet.” I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. My laptop’s left open and forgotten on the side table. We’re in her suite now, since the bulletproof windows are finally installed and they’re working on refitting the rest of the house. The front door’s being reinforced, the back door is now an inch of steel plating, and the security system got an upgrade with a fleet of questionably legal drones patrolling all night long.
The neighbors probably hate me. They can fuck right off.
“You’re breathing.” She pushes herself up with a sigh. “No, you’re snorting.”
“I’m perfectly still and tranquil like a calm beach.”
“You’re a typhoon.” She winces as she adjusts herself. I have to resist the urge to run to her side. I’ve already gotten shouted down several times for being a little too overbearing, and I’m trying to give her a small bit of space. That’s not easy for me right now. “I can’t sleep anyway. Every time I close my eyes, I keep seeing him.”
She doesn’t have to specify who. I get up and sit at her side, pulling her close against me. She sighs, leaning her head on my shoulder.
“He made his choice,” I tell her, even though it isn’t going to help. “He was a good man.”
“He shouldn’t have died for me,” she whispers, blinking away tears.
She’s wrong about that. I’d gladly sacrifice a thousand Vitos if it means she gets to breathe for ten more seconds. He was an important member of my household and a good friend, and I’ll honor his memory for the rest of my life.
But I’m glad the fucker’s dead.
Because it means my wife and my child live.
“He did what he felt was right. We should respect his choice and make sure he didn’t waste his life.”
“I know, and I will. It’s just all so fucking—” She swallows against the tears. My strong little kitten. “I don’t even know how it happened.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
She nods miserably. “You’re really doing this?” she asks, shifting her position so she can frown at me. “My dad’s seriously coming down here?”
I check my phone. “He’ll be here in an hour.”
She gets up and paces away nervously. I’m tempted to tell her to keep her head down. All I can see are dangers now: snipers, attackers, murderers, thieves in the night. I can’t be more than a room away from her at all times, or else I start to feel itchy all over.
I failed her once. I nearly got her killed because I wasn’t there with her. I almost lost my entire world, all because I wasn’t paying enough attention.
It won’t happen again.
I draw her back and pull her into my lap. I press a hand to her belly where our child is growing and let her lean against my chest. I hold her like that, and we breathe together in silence. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but all I can see is a little family of three: a child and two doting parents, and it’s beautiful.
It’s more than I deserve.
“You haven’t talked much about the baby,” she whispers, pressing closer like she’s trying to burrow into my ribcage.
“I haven’t wanted to overwhelm you.”
“Are you nervous? Are you excited? I know there’s been a lot going on with Vito’s funeral and all the changes you’re making to the house, but still.”
I kiss her hair and breathe in her scent. “I’m sorry, baby. If you don’t know how excited I am for this child, then I’ve let you down yet again.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“It’s all I can think about. Every day, I picture you with a big swollen belly, you with a baby in your arms, and you walking around my house with a toddler in tow. I picture our child growing in this house under our care. I imagine the laughter, the heartbreak, all the sleepless nights. And I can’t fucking wait for it.”
She laughs lightly and tilts her head up for a kiss. “Here I was thinking I might go back to Philadelphia when this was all over.”
“There’s no over anymore between us, baby,” I say simply. “You’re not going anywhere.”
She bites her lip. “What if I want that?”
I only shake my head. “I don’t care. You’re my family. You’re my wife. And that’s our child. I’m keeping you both here where I can make sure you’re safe and protected for the rest of your lives.”
It’s so simple, really. I don’t know why I ever thought I could let her leave after getting her pregnant. Maybe then I didn’t realize how important she would become and how much I need to be around her all the damn time, but there’s no going back. It’s way too late to change.
She’s mine. That’s all I care about.
We talk about the baby for a little while longer. I think it eases some of her anxiety. Before I even realize how long it’s been, there’s a knock at the door and Alexan’s voice. “Sir, Mr. Zeitsev is here to see you.”
Dasha tenses in my arms. She doesn’t move. I half expected her to jump up at the chance to see her father, but clearly whatever bond made them close has snapped and won’t ever repair itself.
Not that I can blame her.
Rage fills my heart as I get to my feet.
“You can stay here if you want,” I say softly, giving her a hard look. “This won’t be pleasant.”
“I need to see him.” She accepts my hand, and I help her up. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure it’s a good idea, and we go down to my study together.
Her father is waiting near the bookcase. He looks the same as he did before: wiry with a hard stare and a sharp frown.
I close the door behind us.
“Hello, Tigran,” her father says. He doesn’t approach to shake. His eyes keep flicking to his daughter and back to me again, and he’s on edge.
“Serge.” I hold his gaze for a long, difficult moment. But Dasha’s the one who breaks the tension.
“Hello, Dad,” she says, sticking close to my side. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Dashenka,” he says, his tone softening. I hate this weak, pathetic man with all the fire in my soul, but he clearly cares about his daughter, even if he is too pathetic to do what’s required of a true father. “You look well. Tigran’s taking good care of you.”
“Don’t be silly, Dad,” Dasha says brightly. “I look like shit. Hard to ignore all the cuts and bruises, right? I guess you know how I got them all.”
Serge grimaces. He glances at me, clearly nervous. “I heard. I’m sorry, Dashenka. If I had known—”
“Don’t speak to her again.” I take a step toward him. His eyes narrow. I bet this man isn’t used to being spoken to in such a manner, but he’d better start acclimating. “You will not address my wife in my presence. You’ve lost that privilege.”
“That’s my daughter,” he says, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“You forfeited your rights to her after letting that fucking slime Seamus McGrath live after what he did to her.”
Serge’s body tenses. He grips the bookcase as if needing it for support. Dismay colors his face as he stares at Dasha, and she glares right back with defiance. I expected her to be small and compliant, like the girl I first married, but not anymore.
Her shell’s slowly breaking apart and revealing the shining woman underneath.
And I fucking love it.
“You don’t understand the situation back then,” Serge says, looking back at me. “I had no choice.”
“That animal kidnapped your only daughter.” I step closer to him. “That animal kept her locked in a cage.” I step closer to him again. “That animal sliced up her pretty face and treated her like a fucking dog.” I stand directly in front of him, looking over the thin man. His jaw’s working and his eyes are wide with fear. “And you let him go.” I lean close enough that our noses are nearly touching. “Why?” I snarl, barely restraining myself.
“His father,” Serge says, visibly restraining himself from stepping back more. I’m deeply in his personal space now, and he doesn’t like it.
No, he’s fucking afraid, just like he should be.
“The politician,” I say, sneering.
“Michael McGrath was powerful in those days. Until the day he died, he was a force in the Senate and had a knack for making his unruly children’s problems disappear.”
“Is that what he did with you?”
“Seamus was a problem. He gambled too much at a young age. I hear he blew through all the bookies in Maryland, which is how he ended up coming to Philadelphia. I gave him credit, not knowing better, and he dug himself such a deep hole that I had no choice but to make threats. Instead of doing the right thing and paying me off, he decided to do something drastic.” Serge glances at his daughter again. Dasha’s standing still, her spine straight, her chin raised, fury in her eyes. “I found her as fast as I could and brought her home. I was going to light the whole city on fire until Michael McGrath came to me and begged for his son’s life. He offered me favors, made threats, did everything he could. He made it clear that he would bring all his power against me. In the end, we agreed on a solution.”
I take a steady breath. “What was the solution, Serge?”
“Seamus was sent to a rehabilitation school. It was like a military academy. He stayed there for years, and I had hoped it might’ve changed him, but—”
My hand whips forward. I catch Serge by the throat and slam him back into the shelf. Books topple off, and Serge scrabbles at my wrist, trying to struggle free, but my grip is like iron as I squeeze.
“But you were fucking wrong,” I snarl in his face. “Seamus is very much alive. He’s very much a part of his father’s old organization. And he’s trying to kill my fucking pregnant wife.”
I slam my forehead into his nose. Blood spurts down his lips and chin, gushing onto his shirt. I do it again and again until the bone is practically pulp. More blood’s smeared all over me, and I’m growling in his face like an animal, barely able to control myself.
“Please,” Serge says, moaning in pain. “I didn’t know. I did what I thought was best.”
“What was best for you,” I spit and throw him down. He groans as he hits the floor, more blood dribbling onto my carpet. I kick him hard in the gut. “You weak, pathetic piece of shit. I knew you had no spine at the wedding, but now I see you for what you are.” I kick him again, this time smashing my toe right into his mouth. He grunts and falls flat on his back, eyes rolling as he struggles to stay conscious. I put a knee on his chest and smash my face into his. “You should have killed Seamus. You should have protected your daughter. Now, I’m going to clean up your fucking mess.”
Again, again, again, I keep hitting him as all my rage flares and I can’t control myself anymore. I have to break him, I have to kill him, I have to sate his black hunger burning a hole in my chest. If I can’t have Seamus, then Serge will have to be good enough.
“Tigran.”
I hit him. I hit him again. Blood and teeth scatter across the carpet. His begging and pleading are like music.
“Tigran, please.” But that voice isn’t him. A hand grabs my arm. I jerk but stop myself before I yank her off her feet.
Dasha’s there, holding onto me.
“Please, Tigran,” she says again. “Please, stop.”
I can barely understand what she’s saying. My wife is begging for the life of the man who couldn’t keep her safe?
Worse, the man who traded righteous revenge for political favors?
“He deserves this,” I say, breathing hard, sweat and blood mingling on my face. “You know he deserves worse.”
“I know,” she says gently, her face beautiful and calm. “But he’s still my father.”
“Not anymore. He’s nothing to you now.”
“Please, Tigran. That’s enough.” She tugs me, pulling me back.
I want to keep hitting. I want to feed the monster inside and watch Serge die under my fists.
But Dasha doesn’t want that.
And even though there’s a howling, hellish monster screaming for bloody murder gibbering in my skull, Dasha matters.
She’s the little bit of light left in my otherwise rotten soul.
“Come here,” she says, and I let her draw me away from him.
I take her into my arms. I kiss her, smearing blood on her lips and face. She doesn’t seem to mind. I hug her close and have to take a moment to calm down. The bloodlust is fading, leaving only a bitter, acidic taste in my throat.
Her father groans, only somewhat conscious.
“I’ll spare him,” I say, even though it goes against everything that I am. “Only because that’s what you want.”
“Thank you, Tigran.” She kisses me again, smiling, angelic and perfect. My beautiful wife. The mother of my child. “I know it’s not easy, but thank you.”
She’s right, it’s not fucking easy. If she weren’t here, I would’ve stomped and punched until Serge was a corpse and my knuckles were bruised and broken.
But with her, I don’t have to be a monster.
I can be better, or at least I can let her steer me in a new direction.
“You will never speak to your daughter again unless she decides she wants to hear from you.” I nudge him with the toe of my boot. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he hisses, spitting more blood. “Please, I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, Dad; that’s why you’re not dead.” She crouches down at his side and brushes some of his bloody hair from his face. He’s wheezing and can’t move, but his eyes are lucid at least. “You felt bad, didn’t you? That’s why you let me stay at home for so long. You felt guilty for letting Seamus live.”
“I failed you,” he whispers.
“Yes, you did,” she agrees and steps away. “Get yourself cleaned up. Go home and don’t come back. You won’t be a part of my baby’s life.”
“Dashenka,” he says, groaning in agony.
“Don’t call me that anymore.” She turns her back on him, looking so glorious and strong. I’m half hard as my blood pounds in my ears. “Goodbye, Dad.”
She leaves the room.
Fucking God, that woman is glorious.
I watch her go, oozing with love and respect, basking in her glow.
Then I look back at her slug of a father.
“Regardless of what she says in the future, if I ever see you again, I will kill you. Do you understand?”
He manages a nod.
Then I leave him alone to fucking rot before one of my men tosses him in a car and takes him back to his shit-infested city.
Dasha’s waiting for me in the hall with tears in her eyes. I grab her by the hips and pull her into me, kissing her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her scar.
“I will do what he couldn’t,” I whisper, swearing it with my heart and soul. “I’ll avenge you and Vito. Seamus will die, and he will die screaming. I’ll tear the city apart for you, and I won’t stop until he’s gone.”
“I know you will,” she says and looks up at me. “That’s what I’m so afraid of.”
