Page 8 of Wicked Embers

“No!” The cry rips from my throat, instinctive and uncontrollable, disbelief surging through me like wildfire. My hands shake at my sides as I stare at the cards, struggling to grasp the enormity of what just happened.

“‘Radomir, please,” my father pleads, his voice cracking with fear. “Give me some time to get you the money.”

The devil doesn’t even flinch. His expression remains untouched by the desperation in my father’s voice, as if the crumbling of our world is nothing more than an insignificant detail in his night. He leans back in his chair, exuding an unshakable calm that’s as chilling as his icy blue gaze.

“Congratulations, Mark,” he drawls, his voice smooth and laced with mockery. His lips curl slightly, a ghost of satisfaction darkening his expression as he watches the devastation take hold—the fear in my father’s eyes, the disbelief etched into my own. “You’re now debt free!”

To him, this is all a game—a master puppeteer pulling strings, bending everyone to his will with a flick of his wrist. And right now, we’re the ones tangled in those strings.

A scrape of wood against the floorboards jolts me. I turn to see my father pushing to his feet, his body quivering, eyes searching mine for forgiveness that I no longer have to give him.

As the cold-hearted purveyor of hell basks in his victory, I feel my dreams slipping through my fingers—Los Angeles, songwriting under sunlit skies—all fading into nothingness. The future I fought so hard for is now just another chip in my father’s reckless game.

“Radomir...” My father attempts further coaxing and trying to appeal to the Bratva prince’s compassion, which we both know was futile.

Radomir Molchanov has no heart!

My father’s trembling hand threads through disheveled hair laced with more grey than the rich brown it had once been. “Leigh, baby girl... I...” He turns towards me in an attempt to play on my sympathies.

Anger surges—hot, consuming—blurring my vision and tightening my chest. The man who was supposed to protect me may as well have just stabbed me in the heart. I’d become nothing more than a pile of poker chips, a toy for the Dark Lord of Vegas.

My eyes bore my father, years of betrayal boiling over. My voice comes out sharp, venomous.

“You promised me you were done with this,” I snarl, my temper rising unchecked. “I asked you—begged you—to think about my future for once. But you couldn’t, could you?” My voice rises, cutting through the room. “No. All you care about is your damn addiction. You’ll lie, cheat, even steal from your own daughter just to feed it!”

A red haze clouds my vision as my father steps forward, hands outstretched in a feeble attempt at peace. The giant’s grip tightens momentarily, a silent warning to calm down, but I’m too far gone.

“Leigh, I’ll make it up to you.” His eyes dart nervously toward Radomir Molchanov, seeking approval like a dog waiting for a master’s command. “I swear baby!”

“Make it up to me?” A bitter laugh tears from my throat, jagged and grating, even to my own ears. “Dying—that’s how you make this up to me. Because the only way you’ll stop fucking up my life is if you’re dead!”

The giant lets me go, his grip falling away abruptly, as if the sheer venom of my words has soured his hold. He glares at my father, a flash of disgust crossing his features.

Before I can think, my hand finds the vodka bottle, and it flies through the air, propelled by pure rage it hurtles towardsmy father’s head with a force I didn’t even know I had. He ducks just in time. The bottle shatters against the window behind him, sending shards of glass spraying like shrapnel. Players shout and dive for cover.

The room plunges into stunned silence. For a moment, the only sound is my ragged breathing, each breath burning as if I’ve swallowed fire. From the corner of my eye, I catch Radomir’s gaze. His expression hasn’t changed—calm, calculating, and completely unaffected by the mess I’ve just created.

“What the hell, Leigh!” my father shouts. “You could’ve killed me.”

“That was the point!” I scream at him, my voice laced with angry frustration as I use the table as a springboard to lunge at my father. Cards and chips scatter through the air, my fingers outstretched, aiming for his throat.

Before I can reach him, strong arms catch me mid-flight. They handle me effortlessly, as though I weigh nothing more than a feather, despite my wild struggles.

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” I growl, my voice trembling with fury.

“Enough,” the command cuts through the room like a whip, its sharp authority freezing everyone in place.” There’s no mistaking the dominance in every syllable.

I make one more attempt to wiggle out of his grasp, my heart pounding against my ribcage, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But the more I struggle, the stronger his hold gets—unyielding, a reminder of how trapped I am.

“Let go of me.” I snarl through gritted teeth. But Radomir doesn’t budge.

“Not until you calm down,” he replies, his tone infuriatingly even. “This is not the way to handle things and a path that leads nowhere for you, malenkaya zadira.”

I open my mouth to retort and tell him exactly where he can shove his calm and reason, but before I can get the words out, my father’s voice catches my attention.

“Leigh, baby, please try to understand. I did this for us.” my father makes another desperate attempt to appeal to my soft heart.

I blink at him in astonishment. “Jesus. You’re un-fucking-believable.” I wiggle again. My hands itching to rip out my father’s throat.

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