Page 46 of Craving Dahlia

I hear a shout, the click of a gun, and my own is drawn in an instant, leveled at the group of five men I see scattered around the shitty excuse for a living room.

“Tell him to lower his gun,druz’ya,” I growl, gesturing at the one threatening me with my own weapon. “Or one of you dies. I’ll let you wonder which one it will be,da?”

I can smell the stench of their fear, overpowering the rank smells of weed and sweat, and it’s almost as satisfying as a good fuck. It’s been so long sinceI’vebeen feared, since someone has trembled while looking down the barrel of my gun, and the sensation of it prickles pleasurably down my spine.

“Put the gun down,” I repeat, my voice rough and angry, and when the man—a boy, really—holding the gun doesn’t obey, my finger sinks down on the trigger.

There’s five of them, and six shots in the gun. I only need three. I drop the one aiming the weapon at me first, ducking to one side as his finger stutters on the trigger when he falls, sending a bullet wide. I drop two more in quick succession—the one next to him and the one on the far side of the room, leaving two of the men still alive.

The acrid scent of urine fills the air, and when I look over at the scrawny man in basketball shorts sitting in a gaming chair, I can see that he pissed himself. His other friend, a stocky man who looks like he played football ten years ago, is sitting frozen on the sofa near the wall, the shattered glass of a bong on the floor at his feet. His face is bone white, green around the edges, terror written across his features.

“Now that I have your attention—” I look between the two of them. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Yashkov Bratva. You’ve done business with them, even, although you must notbe very good at it, given your…living situation.” I look around, the derision in my voice making it plain what I think of their hideout, or home, or whatever they want to call it.

“Look, man, we just need some more time—” The skinny one blubbers out the words, and I stalk towards him, shoving my gun back into my waistband and my other hand into my pocket.

“I don’t think that’s true. I think you have something here, or at least enough to buy yourself some time. Either what you owe the Bratva, or the drugs you were given—either one will do. But you’re going to give me something, and until you do?—”

I reach out, grabbing the skinny one by the front of his t-shirt, and I bring my other fist around. The brass knuckles on my hand gleam in the fluorescent light from the lamps by the couch as they connect with his jaw, sending a spray of blood over the carpet, my shirt, and my hand. I see one of his teeth fly free, hitting the corner of the table, and I hear his friend let out a grunt of shock.

That shock lasts only a second. The friend is up a moment later, barreling towards me, and something like relief washes over me at the promise of a fight.

It’s fast. I jerk the skinny one to one side, pivoting just in time to hit the stocky one in the chin with the knuckles. He drops like a sack of potatoes, and I fling the skinny one back into his chair, knocking him back onto the floor in full view of his friend.

“Whichever one of you talks first gets to live,” I growl. “So make up your mind.”

Twenty minutes later, the stocky one is dead on the floor with his other friends, his jaw broken and eyes sightless. The skinny one is crying bloody, snotty tears through a mouth that’s missing teeth, but I have half the money Dimitri is owed and the remaining pills.

“Forget you ever worked with the Yashkov Bratva,” I warn him, shoving the brass knuckles back into my pocket before striding back out into the rank warmth of the stairwell.

Once I’m back outside, I draw in deep lungfuls of the fresh air, rotating my neck from side to side as I go to collect my bike. I feel a bone-deep sense of satisfaction, almost on par with the relief that comes after an orgasm, my muscles looser than they have been in years, the skin of my hands bruised and tight with blood.

It felt fucking good to let loose. It felt good to make someone else hurt. I feel viscerally aware of my freedom as I rev my bike’s engine and pull out onto the street, a pulsing, vibrant feeling of beingalivechurning through my veins.

Halfway home, as I look in one of my mirrors, I see a black car two lengths behind me. I frown, a sudden chill running down my spine, a prickling awareness that I’ve had since I was young. I’ve always known how to be aware of my surroundings, to watch for anyone following me, to know when something is wrong. And something feels wrong.

I turn right, and the car follows. Left, and they’re still behind me. I grit my teeth, veering down a side street, hitting the gas as I speed up with the intent to lose them. And for three more turns, I don’t manage it, until I veer down yet another alley, zipping through a four-way intersection on a red light. I swerve around passing cars, ignoring the honks and shouts, nearly sliding as I whip down another alleyway on the other side, speeding forward until, when I look behind me, the car is gone.

Still, I was being followed. I’m sure of it.

I should tell Dimitri. Regardless of the tension between us, he’s the Yashkovpakhan,and if someone is following me back from a job, he needs to know about it.

But something within me resists the idea. Not just because some leftover need within me for his approval doesn’t want himto know I had a tail, but also because I don’t want to be dragged deeper back into the machinations of the Bratva. I did this for Dimitri because I wanted those men’s blood and fear, but I’m not sure I really want any part of the family business any longer.

Tonight was for me, not him. And as I pull up to the front of the mansion, looking up at the darkened windows, I know I’m not going to breathe a word about it.

If danger comes for me, I’ll deal with it. I don’t need to rely on anyone else to do my dirty work.

I learned a long time ago that there’s no use in it, anyway.

16

DAHLIA

I’m woken up in the morning by the sound of my phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand. It takes a moment for it to cut through the tangled dreams I was having—dreams about Alek, and our wedding day, and that night in the library. I wake with my skin prickling with sweat and the sheets kicked off, only to roll over and see that the name lighting up my phone screen is my father.

I sit up, feeling like I’ve been doused with a bucket of ice water. For a moment, I consider not answering it, but I know that will only make things worse. My father has connections, and while I might have married into the Bratva, I know he has the ability to try to find where I’ve gone. While I believe that Dimitri would do everything in his power to keep him from making me do anything I didn’t want to, I still don’t want to deal with the lengths my father might go to, if I try to avoid him.

So I answer the phone, tucking my knees up to my chest as I run my free hand through my tangled hair. “Hello?”’

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