Page 136 of Ivory Ashes

The grim look in his eyes tells me all I need to know.

Retaliation.

I expected it, but it still would have been nice if they’d chosen any other night aside from tonight.

“I have to get going, bud.” I readjust the comforter around his shoulders. “Are you okay now?”

His brows pinch together. “Will you be safe? Will you come back?”

Nothing in the world has prepared me for this moment. For my son looking at me with worry in his eyes, afraid on my behalf.

I smooth his hair back and press a kiss to his forehead. “I’m always safe. I’ll always come back.”

“Good.” He throws his arms around my neck. “I love you.”

My chest aches. It’s a physical pain, the way those three little words penetrate my heart.

“I love you, too.”

It’s easy to say. There’s no denying it. Not the way I can with Viviana. The way I have to.

I kiss Dante’s forehead again and slip out of the room.

Anatoly is waiting there, a gun on his hip. “They launched an attack on the lounge. The guards are dead and I’m waiting on a count of the waitresses, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Fuck the body count.” I march past him down the hall. “It changes nothing. They attacked us. I’ll kill them all.”

49

VIVIANA

It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am.

Within the last twenty-four hours, I’ve slept in three different rooms. First, the beach house in Costa Rica. Then Mikhail’s room. Now, I’m waking up in my bed.

Alone.

My head hurts from crying. My cheeks are still sticky from tears. I sit up and reach for a tissue on the nightstand, but I freeze when I see a shadow in the corner shift.

I slam back against the headboard before I realize it’s Mikhail.

“You scared me.”

He’s sitting in an armchair in the corner, his elbows resting on his knees. He’s not looking at me; his eyes are fixed on the floor.

“You can’t leave,” he says without glancing up.

“It’s the middle of the night,” I point out. “Where would I?—”

“You can’t leave.” He looks up at me and my throat closes.

There’s blood crusted over a slash on his forehead. More blood dried in the grooves around his knuckles. His hair is disheveled and there is pure hell in his eyes.

I shove the blankets away and stand next to the edge of the bed, as if whatever bloodied him up is in the room. As if I can do something about it that Mikhail hasn’t already.

“What happened to you?” I breathe. “Are you?—”

“No walks,” he interrupts. “No work. Nothing. You cannot leave. Do you understand me?”

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