Page 52 of Reign of Four

Andrei places the gun in my hand. “Anton Dolohov needs sentencing.” Which translates to, he needs to die.

Do they really expect me to kill this man in cold blood, here?

I glare at Andrei. He might be okay with shooting Anton in the head and calling it a day, but that’s not how I want to run things. “You want him to die.” I glance back and Ezra and Mikhail, knowing they expect the same. “You all do.”

Mikhail steps up beside me, grabs Anton’s blonde head of hair, and wrenches the man’s head back. He’s been beaten black and blue, his left cheek purpling, his right eye swollen shut. Blood trickles down his nose and from a split lip.

It seems the guards have a few opinions of their own, as well.

“Tell her why you’re here, Anton.” Mikhail plants his heel on Anton’s thigh and digs in, twisting. “Why come to a house full of lonely, desperate kids?”

Anton ignores Mikhail and stares directly at me. “Looks like the pretty girl turned into a beautiful woman overnight. Tell me, was my brother’s cock not enough for you? You had to stuff three cocks in one hole to feel something?”

Mikhail snarls, punching Anton hard in the jaw. The crack of knuckles to bone settles in my chest like a heavy stone. I don’t feel pity for his pain, but it’s the same cycle repeating. We beat someone up. They come back for revenge. We beat someone else up. They return with a gun and a grudge. Over and over and over again.

I’m beginning to understand how the bodies pile up.

Gently, I place my hand on Anton’s swollen cheek. He really does look like Liam, even now. “Your brother wanted to own something pretty he could fuck into submission. Do not mistake me for that woman.” I tighten my grip, his hot flesh filling my palm as I squeeze. “Answer the question. Why are you here?”

He should have run the first chance he got. It doesn’t make sense for him to stay in the city at all. The Dolohovs will be black-listed from ever doing business with the Baranovas again, much less from entering the city.

Anton tries not to react, but a stray tear slips free. It brushes against my finger on its descent to the ground. “The old bitch promised an army. I’m here to collect what we’re owed.”

My gut twists. Liam and his men had discussed numbers, and Kravinsky even said something about Francesca and the orphanage—the boys not being trained in weaponry. It clicks into place so quickly that I don’t notice I’m digging into Anton’s face until he screams. Slowly, I pull my nails free, grimacing at the pluck from his skin. His blood tips my fingers. I wipe them on his shirt. “What you’ll collect is your death.”

I draw a breath and let it out slowly. I don’t want a man who’s willing to abuse children allowed to live. I understand the guards’ anger now; anyone who dares touch a child deserves the worst level of hell.

But I am not a dispenser of justice. I will leave that to my men.

Turning to Mikhail, I press a kiss to his cheek. “Make it hurt, moya muzh.” I give Andrei his gun back. “Just don’t do it here.” Finally, I step up to my final husband and place my hand on his chest. “We’ll stay here to look after the children for a while.” And find Francesca’s replacement, and hire a full staff, and make sure all the kids are fed and happy before the day ends. I’d much rather handle these kinds of tasks than the bloody ones.

Leave those to the professionals.

I walk away from Anton and close the door to that part of my life, grateful that it’s finally over.

Ezra wrangles the kids and the one remaining staff member into one room while I clean Anton’s blood and sweat from my hands. I meant what I said before; these children are under our care, and they deserve better than we’ve given them. I’m going to make sure they’re well taken care of, no matter if they officially join the Bratva or not. That shouldn’t be a precursor to their worth.

There are more children and teenagers than I thought. Ezra has a handful of the older ones sitting on two beds as he speaks to them in Russian. A few of them glance in my direction, and I catch the gauntness of their cheeks from across the room. The markings on their necks and arms—brands of the hard life they’ve been born into. A few of them match Ezra’s tattoos.

There’s no one better to guide them than him.

A little girl runs over to me and grabs my hand. “Come sit with us!” She pulls me over to a wobbly table and sits with the only two other girls in the room. Plastic cups and mismatched plates sit out in front of all four seats. “We’re having tea,” the girl explains, “and I’ve invited the queen!”

I take my seat and smile at each of the girls. I learn their names as Rebecca, their ringleader, fills our cups with water. “My name is Valentina. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” They ask all kinds of questions about my dress, my hair, the tall man over there, when Miss Francesca will be back, what I’m doing here, when will I be back, and more. It’s an endless barrage until we’ve run out of tea, and Rebecca runs off to get more from the sink.

While Ezra and I meet every one of our wards, the staff member pulls all of their records, including all records of employment over the past decade. We’ll pour over everything once we’re home to determine the best course of action and whether that means fostering children in trusted homes or reworking our current system. Ezra calls in for more staff, and before the sun has set, all children have been fed pork chops and potatoes, watched a movie or played outside, and given new blankets for the night.

It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

As Ezra and I make to leave, Rebecca jumps up from her bed and runs out into the hallway. “Queen Valentina!” She rushes into me and hugs my legs tight. “Please come again soon!”

I smooth my hand over Rebecca’s hair and crouch to give her a hug. “Of course. I’ll bring tea for our party.” I lead Rebecca back to bed and tuck her in for the night, then I do the same for the other two girls sharing the room. On our way out, Ezra gives parting words to the older boys in the other rooms.

I take his hand in mine as we walk to the car. “Will you teach me Russian? Real Russian, not the little bits and pieces I already know. I want to be able to have full conversations.”

“I will do anything for you, lisichka.” Kissing the back of my hand, he tugs me against his chest. “You look good as mother to them. You have kind heart. They need good influence.”

“You seem to be taking to those boys,” I point out, lifting an eyebrow. “Maybe fatherhood suits you.”

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