Ten days later, I got out of the hospital. Aisling and Sparrow doted on my ass like I was a baby, fussing over me and checking on me every single hour, dropping my masculinity levels to new lows I was pretty sure only poodles with designer haircuts had suffered.
The first two days, I humored them, mostly because I was trying to play nice with my fiancée. By day three, however, I made the executive decision to throw all the fucks the doctors had asked I give about my health out the window.
“Nix, stop.” I caught her hand. It rested on my chest in our apartment—yes, our apartment—as she patted my forehead with a hot, wet cloth. “No more of this bullshit. I’m going back to the streets tonight.”
Her peacock eyes widened in horror, her rosebud mouth pouting.
“You’re still recovering.”
“I’m bored out of my ass, and I have a job to do.”
“You can do it when you’re feeling better.”
“I’m feeling pretty fucking great. Would you like me to demonstrate?” I raised an eyebrow, my eyes dropping to the impressive bulge in my pants. No matter my physical state, whenever Aisling was in the room so was my need to fuck her through the mattress, floor, and earth.
“We had a deal, remember?” She withdrew her hand from mine, stepping back, standing in front of me in our bedroom.
“Yes, my love. I was right fucking there when we had it.” I smiled impatiently.
It was one thing to give up half my kingdom for her. It was quite a-fucking-nother to be happy about it. “Yet another reason why I need to get my ass out of bed and take care of business. Give me my phone.” I snapped my fingers toward the nightstand.
She quirked an eyebrow, knotting her arms over her chest.
She was my fiancée, not my soldier. I had a long way to go when it came to treating her like the princess that she was. Mostly because I’d never had to treat anyone well my entire life.
“Please. And thank you.” I grinned wolfishly, and she picked my phone up, handing it over to me.
“Who are you calling?”
I already had the phone pressed to my ear. “Troy.”
“Where are you two going?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“You’re always going to keep me on my toes, aren’t you?” She sighed but looked happy about it. I grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled her down for a filthy, deep kiss.
“Not at all. Sometimes I’ll keep you on your back, too. And on all fours. But whatever your position, I promise you’ll fucking enjoy it.”
The following evening, Troy parked in front of Vasily Mikhailov’s Russian deli in Brookline. He tossed me a doubtful look.
“You sure you wanna do this? You can tell her you did it, and she’ll be none the wiser. I know you’ve worked hard to conquer Brookline.”
“Whatever happened to chewing more than I could swallow?”
“Just playing devil’s advocate before you make a move.”
“You don’t have to play devil’s advocate with me. I know what goes on inside the devil’s head.” I pushed the passenger door open, sliding out and cocking my gun as I did. I heard Troy doing the same behind me. We rounded his car, popping the trunk open. Vasily’s daughter, Masha, blinked at the sudden light coming from behind our shoulders, her mouth gagged, her hands and feet tied together behind her back.
I smiled cordially. “Miss Mikhailov, thank you for contributing to our cause.”
She murmured something hysterical around the fabric covering her mouth, but I couldn’t distinguish it.
“What’s that?” I asked. “Never mind. You were never captured for your conversational skills. Only as a pawn to ensure your daddy knows I will slaughter you if he doesn’t bend to my will.”
I hoisted her up over my shoulder, marching toward the deli.
The bell above the deli’s door chimed as we stepped inside. I aimed my gun toward the shop owner with my free hand, an elderly Russian man with a weather-beaten face marred with red and blue from years of braving the cold. Masha was still draped over my shoulder, like a pig on its way to slaughter, still dressed in the same expensive coat and designer heels she wore on her shopping spree this morning.
“Where’s Vasily?” I clipped.
The man’s eyes flared at the sight in front of him. Masha thrashed desperately, trying to wriggle out of my hands.
“I … I …” he started, knowing full well he was not allowed to let people into the back office. That was where his boss was situated.
I turned my aim from his head to Masha’s spine, digging the gun into her bones. “Better fucking hurry or you’ll have to explain to your boss why his daughter’s guts are spilled all over your floor. I’m guessing it’ll be a bitch to clean up, too. Though, I doubt he’ll spare your life after letting it happen.”
“Come with me!” the man blurted out, jumping from his place behind the counter, rounding it and pushing an old wooden door open.
The place smelled of pickles, dried meat, and smoke. I followed the man’s back, Troy at my heels. After passing through a narrow, dusty corridor we reached another door. He opened it.
Vasily was at his desk, surrounded by three of his high-ranked men. He had the pointy, fox-look of a comic book villain, which he highlighted with good suits and bad manners. But not even a fucking ball gown could hide the fact that his face was riddled with knife scars. My initials—S.A.B.—were carved into his forehead, jagged and white.
His bodyguards were on alert, two on each side, all of them possessing the peculiar look of semitrailers and similar IQs. The middle-aged man with silver hair and pale blue eyes looked up at me, putting his cigar down in an ashtray, sending smoke whirling to the ceiling.
“Brennan. You’re alive.”
“And you’re surprised.” I rearranged Masha on my shoulder. Even though I used my healthy shoulder to carry her and not the one his men put a bullet through, I still wasn’t my usual self. Normally, carrying a woman of Masha’s slight weight was akin to wearing a goddamn scarf.
“And I see you brought your daddy.” Vasily’s eyes slid from me to Troy, who stood beside me.
“Seemed fair,” Troy clipped dryly, “seeing as you have an entire army surrounding you. Not used to doing the dirty work anymore, are you, Vasily?”
“And it shows. Two bullets, and not one pierced my heart,” I tsked, shaking my head. “My toddler nephew has better aim in the toilet while potty training.”
Masha twisted in my arms, responding to her father’s words and tenor. I drugged her a little—enough to keep her silent and easy to manage—and I knew these animals were wondering if I used the opportunity to shove my dick in her, and maybe even arranged it so a Brennan bastard was inside her to ensure the Bratva could never touch me again.
“What do you want?” Vasily demanded, darting up from his leather seat. “You obviously came here for retaliation, so just spit it out. And no, my daughter cannot be a part of the deal. She is an innocent. We have a code,” he growled.
“You have a code,” I corrected. “I lack morals and fucks. So it is either my way or the highway, and considering you were very close to sending me to an early grave, you better take my terms, no stipulations and no negotiations.”
“Speak!” Vasily slapped a hand over his desk, seething. “And put her down, for God’s sake!”
“I’ll give you back Brookline, but you will hand me monthly protection money. A percentage of all your businesses,” I said flatly.
Vasily’s eyes narrowed.
“Protection from what? We are the Bratva! We protect ourselves.”
“Hey, I never promised to make sense.” I shrugged, and Masha moaned against my shoulder, weeping through the cloth covering her mouth. “But right now, I have soldiers everywhere in your territory. I am making more money than you ever did here. If you want me to retreat, you need to make it worth my while.”
Vasily stroked his chin, considering my proposition. His men were ready for battle—I could tell by the way their muscles bunched under their shirts.
“Have you touched her?” he asked, his Russian accent thickly coating each word with worry.
“No,” I said honestly. “I require my women to be willing and conscious.”
I also prefer them to be just one woman—Aisling. I still couldn’t believe she made me go through with this. Give up such a strategic part of Boston. Love was a bitch, but it was something I had to endure in order to keep Nix.
“Put her down,” Vasily repeated, his voice shaking slightly. In all the time I’d known him, Vasily Mikhailov’s voice had never wavered. He was scared.
“Concede,” I hissed.
He lowered his head, so close to defeat the despair was tangible in the air.
“What’s your protection rate?”
“Eight percent of all your businesses’ clean profit.”
“Six,” he clipped, jotting down something on a piece of paper resting on his desk, already making the calculation.
“Eight. Love is priceless, Mikhailov,” I reminded him.
He looked up. “Fine. Now put her down.”
I put Masha on the floor. She flailed, her eyes erratically looking for her father among the shadows of people in the room. Vasily ran to her, crouching down and removing a knife from his Italian loafers. He began tearing the ropes that tied her together, whispering Russian endearments in her ear, his face contorted with emotion.
Troy put a hand on my shoulder.
“Time to go, son.”
“All right, Dad.”
It was the first time I called him Dad, but I knew it was not going to be the last.
I turned around and followed him, feeling him smiling, even with his back to me.
For the first time since I was born, I felt something foreign and addictive.
I belonged.
