Page 34 of Merciless Queen

I kick my leg backwards at the same time as yanking on my wrists, but to no avail. “You talk too much for someone who’s here to…what? Kill me.”

“Yes.” A click pulls my gaze to the right, where a secondary blade is coming into view. He’s teasing me with it because if he wanted me gone in this instance, that knife would have been stabbed into my spine or my heart from behind or something, rather than playing show-and-tell. Instead, he keeps the weapon in view and pushes his body more into mine, until glass coats my entire front. “You put up a good fight, Volkov. I like that.” His head dives into the space between my shoulder and neck, his lips trailing the sensitive skin there, making me shiver for reasons I wish I could deny or prevent entirely. “You have no idea how delicious you taste.”

The show he put on tonight certainly was a grand act. One maybe even rivalling Anastasia’s ballet performances. Played thesubmissive so well, and now it’s striking to be the one in that role.

I jerk my head hard to the side, hoping it hurts him in some way. He lostallrights to touch me the second he raised a weapon against me. “You will die, Italian scum.”

“Big words from the person who’s trapped.”

“Shitty actions from the assailant,” I shoot back, keeping the knife in view. “What have I done to deserve all this?”

“The Cosa Nostra sent me to finish the Volkov line.” With the knife, he dips it close to my neck, trailing the dull edge along my skin. My pulse jumps, even though he’s still only taunting me. “And in case your daddy never taught you properly, they’re the Sicilian mafia, one of the oldest organizations in the entire world. They control Italy and some surrounding countries, even parts of North America. Needless to say, they’re the real deal, Volkov, and I hate to be the one to tell you, but the Bratva are a fraction of what they are.”

Papa never taught me shit, but I’m aware of who the Cosa Nostra are and where they hold territory, both in Italy and in the U.S. since Dimitri went over all the mob organizations as a part of my training. It’s vital to know who’s running where, should they ever rise against me.

What I don’t know is why they’d be after me now. Old documents I dug up described decades’ old battles between us and them, but nothing in recent years, and certainly nothing that’d give them reason enough to come for me. The world’s only so big so at some point every organization has been in a battle with another; it’s just how it is, and why alliances can be important.

The thing that’s always unnerved me, though, is how discreet they are. Lev found the lack of information strange, believing they had people scrub the internet of any mention of them, so my knowledge is unfortunately limited no matter how hardI’ve searched. They’re very secretive on how they’re ran, but thankfully I have the important information: that their boss is a man named Alessandro Vitale. I’ve never interacted with the Cosa Nostra before—never had a need to—so if this is Vitale’s way of saying hello, he can shove it.

I jerk on my wrists again, feeling a burn from his tight grip. I’ll get out of this soon, but the fact he hasn’t used that weapon on me yet says he wants something else. I can work with that. Keep him talking, break him down.

“You’re a mercenary then? Come to assassinate me in my bed. What do you want? I’ll give you anything.”

In the window’s reflection, I find his gaze, and it tells me everything. Hisfaltersays I’ve succeeded. He didn’t expect me to negotiate for my safety. There’s almost an annoyance in the twist of his mouth and the narrowing of his eyes.

But he does what I hoped he would and his grip wanes, loosening just enough that when I yank again, I’m free to go immediately for the kill. My left leg swings up into a roundhouse kick that lands on his thigh and gets him away from me. It’s enough to push off the window and sprint for my gun, which is still on the floor. He swipes the knife my way but misses entirely, and I make it to the gun before he’s upright again.

This time, I refuse to play his game.

I refuse to miss.

Zeno’s eyes widen because he must see the promise of death in my own. Must realize that this time, there’s no hesitation on my part. He nearly won before and it’s a mistake only made once. His knife is pathetic compared to the gun, and he must realize this when he takes off for the door.

I shoot, only it misses wide and creates a puncture in my doorframe, just shy of his head. My shots are too messy and chaotic for my liking, but it’s symbolic of this whole night andthe way, as much as I despise admitting this, that Zeno’s trickery has thrown me.

“Volkov!” Zeno shouts, hands coming up to cover his head.

I ignore his yell, or plea, or whatever the purpose behind screaming my name was and shoot again.

And this one doesn’t miss.

Everythingabout this night has gone wrong.

Which is why I’m sprinting through the mansion, presumably leaving a blood trail from Vanessa’s room directly to me that she’ll track. I’m fucked, so unless I can break the trail, it’s over for me. The Merciless Queen doesn’t give second chances.

As much as I want to ruminate on tonight, I can’t. I run through the house after having a bullet shot at me. I felt the moment it went through my leg, slowing me down.

I take the stairs as fast as I physically can while she’s presumably busy getting dressed and phoning her minions, making these few moments of reprieve more important than ever.

I’ve fucked up so badly.And right now, she has the upper hand.

I make it to the bottom of the staircase and through the double doors, taking off into the night. No one stops me, which means Vanessa hasn’t called her guards yet.

The mansion is sitting on an expanse of a trimmed lawn, surrounded by a thick forestry wall. It’s the trees I run to, planning to duck through the darkness and toward the other side while being forced to accept I’ve lost this round and all my planning has been for nothing. Now, she’ll be more cautious than ever. Now, she’ll come for the Cosa Nostra, and they’ll be pissed.

With every step, every breath, white spots decorate my vision. My lower left leg burns from where it was hit, but I push on. It’s not the first time I’ve been shot, and it certainly won’t be the last, and it’s definitely not the worst.

By the time I reach the tree line, I slow to a stumbling walk. My breaths are more paced than they should be and my vision continues to blur, like a camera going in and out of focus. My palm lands on a tree trunk, the ache in my leg telling me it’s more than a simple, clean shot, which is what it initially felt like.

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