Page 43 of Merciless Queen

Unfortunately, desperation rolls from her.

It’s that very desperation that I can use, though. Desperation makes people do things, say things…things that’ll benefit me. As much as I taunt her, I’m already aware she’s nothing like Ursin Volkov was, and every second with her since the club only proves that. The fact pisses me off, considering everything I’d gone through to get here.

She’s spent two years showing everyone she can do the job—and damn well succeeded at it. I’d been watching all the changes she’s made, using any inside intel to learn more and more about the layers that make up Vanessa.

She won’t give up easily, and I firmly believe she will bring war to Italy, depending how my time with her goes. If my call the other day did what it was meant to, then it won’t be long before my revised plan goes into effect. She better act soon or else it’ll be her death and not mine approaching. This will end, one way or the other, and soon.

One way or the other…Knowing what I do, seeing what I have, sparks other ideas. Something worse. Something Iknowfor a fucking fact Vanessa would despise. Maybe even off herself before following through, which makes it that much more painful. For her. Death isn’t the only way a person can pay and?—

No. What am I thinking?Blood loss must be fucking with my rationale because there’s no damn way there’s any world in which a Volkov should be left alive. Not on my watch. Not after the years I’ve been at this. It’s bad enough I fucked her.

Thataspect of the plan must go through. The Merciless Queen will become a disgraced queen. One buried six feet below the ground beside her fucking father, which is why that fleeting bout of idiocy must pass. Then I can spit on his grave and go after the final Volkovs: Ursin’s brother, Ivan, and Ivan’s son, Dimitri.

After all, it’s why I’m here on the Cosa Nostra’s behalf. They might have their issues with him, but I’m the one who vowed revenge on him and all he loves.

Red. So much red. Too much red.

It used to be my favourite colour, but not anymore.

Not as it seeps from my father’s lifeless body, pooling around my knees and soaking into my jeans from where I was shoved to kneel beside him. I want to glance at my father before I can’t any longer. Want to hold his unresponsive body and cry the stinging tears that prick the backs of my eyes as I glare at the man whose become my family’s villain. Madre’s, Padre’s, and mine. After everything he’s done, all the pain and destruction, tears willnotbe freely given.

It was one of many lessons Padre passed on that have shaped me. Never reveal true emotion in front of an enemy because it’s that very emotion that can be wielded to tear us down.

The man approaches, his shiny leather shoes stepping into the pool of blood. It parts for him, and I despise how he’s freely walking through what’s remaining of my father.

With his gun, he forces my face up to his, winning against my resistance attempts. As I stare into the face of my father’s murderer and my mother’s trauma, I decide it’s okay. Better like this because I’m committing his every feature to memory.

“Eyes on me, boy.” His thick, Russian accent is what my upcoming nightmares will be made of. The same I’m sure Madre hears constantly.

Behind him, one of his soldiers says something in Russian, to which the asshole also replies in the unknown language, his words low and quick, eyes darted to the side. Once their conversation ends, he focuses on me once more.

“Lucky for you, I don’t murder children.”

Then he drops his gun from beneath my chin and circles his right index finger in the air. As one, his men turn and march out through the door they destroyed during their warpath inside.

The leader waits until only him and I are the remaining living souls in the room before saying, “I hope you understand that the Bratva will always retaliate when fucked with. Be sure to consider that as you grow up.”

Without a final look toward my father’s lifeless body, Ursin Volkov turns and walks away, his footsteps painting my father’s blood over the floor, highlighting his path from destruction to freedom. It’s a taunt to me and a stain on the future. Forever, a reminder of this moment, just like every one of Volkov’s actions toward my family.

“I’ll hunt you,” I vow as he makes it to the doorway, my voice managing to rise above its shakiness. With strength I didn’t know to still be clinging to, I position one foot flat on the ground and lift from my kneel, towering over my father.

Volkov turns, smirking, with his gun loose by his side, finger still on the trigger. With a few wrongly chosen words, he could end me right here and now, but I don’t care. Better to die standing as an opponent than kneeling as a victim.

“That so?” Doubt rings in his tone.

“Yes,” I promise. “You, and your entire family will pay for what you’ve done to mine.”

He doesn’t even blink at the threat. “You’re a nobody, boy, but good luck. I hope you learned something today.”

He walks away, leaving me alone with Padre’s dead body lying face down in his own blood. It’s a disgusting way to die, and not one he deserved.

Ursin Volkov was correct in one thing: I did learn something throughout all this.

I learned that I despise the colour red.

Papa wasone of those people who believed bad things came in three.

Number one: dealing with an uncooperative captive.

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