Page 32 of Bratva Baby

If Evan Thorne thinks he can put his hands on my wife for any reason at all, he’s about to learn a very harsh lesson.

I stare out the window as we drive, though I’m not focusing on any scenery. My mind churns with the memory of her expression earlier in the day. She gave me no indication that something was off, even though, in hindsight, there was something off about her. She tried to hide it. I told myself I’d wait for her to open up on her own terms. But now I see that trust or not, I should’ve pried. That woman is my wife, and no one puts a mark on her without paying dearly.

We arrive at Evan Thorne’s mansion, and my driver glances at me in the rearview mirror with concern in his eyes, but he keeps his mouth shut. Good. I throw the door open the instant we come to a stop, ignoring the startled guards by the entrance as I march forward.

“Mr. Barkov,” one guard stammers, moving to block me.

I push him aside without slowing. “Out of my way. I have business with your boss.”

“He’s not expecting—”

“He’ll see me, or I’ll rip this place apart.” My tone leaves no room for argument, and the guard steps back.

The front door swings open before I reach it, revealing a house attendant wearing a forced, polite mask. I shove past himinto the foyer, scanning the lavish interior. My heart hammers, spiked by fury more potent than any gunfight.

“Where is he?” I ask nobody in particular.

One of Evan’s men gestures down a hall, shifting on his feet like he’s not sure if he should fight me or obey. I walk until I reach a door left ajar, and I push it open.

Evan Thorne stands with his back to me, and he’s speaking to two men in suits. The second I appear, his men start reaching inside their coat pockets, no doubt for a weapon. I lift a hand in a silent warning.

“Unless you want my men on your doorstep riddling this place with bullet holes, I guess you two get out.” Neither of them moves. “Now,” I repeat, letting my voice carry the threat.

Evan finally glances at his men. “Leave us,” he says, feigning composure.

They look between us, but he waves them away. They step out, closing the door. We’re alone.

“Grigor Barkov,” Evan says, forcing a cool smile. “To what do I owe this unannounced visit?”

I advance on him until we’re inches apart. “You hit your daughter.”

His expression shutters. “That’s between me and Seraphina.”

My hand shoots out, grabbing the collar of his expensive jacket. He snarls, trying to break free, but I’m stronger. “Seraphina is my wife. If you think you can treat her like some object you can beat, think again.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but I twist his collar tighter, cutting off his words. “Let me go,” he squeaks out.

“You don’t give me orders, Evan. You lost that right when you forced her into this marriage. And now you’ve lost any pretense of fatherhood by raising your hand against her.”

Anger flares in his eyes, and I loosen my hold just enough to allow him to speak. “She’s my daughter. I’ll deal with her as I see fit.”

I sneer. “Wrong answer.”

I slam him against the desk and grab a letter opener lying there. He eyes it, but before he can react, I plunge the slender blade straight through his flesh, pinning him to the wooden surface. He cries out, and his face twists in agony.

“You insane—” he gasps, trying to pull free.

I press down on the hilt. “You want to call me insane? Fine. I’ll be whatever you say, so long as you understand one thing: if you ever lay a finger on Seraphina again, I’ll cut off that hand. Then I’ll move on to your other parts until there’s nothing left. Got it?”

He sputters in pain, and sweat beads on his forehead. “You bastard!”

“Says the man who struck his own daughter.” My anger boils my blood, but I force it to remain controlled. I twist the blade, and he chokes on a scream. “Now we’re clear, aren’t we?”

His eyes roll with agony, and he manages a jerky nod. “Yes,” he spits. “Get this thing out of me.”

I consider leaving him, pulling my gun out right here and ending his miserable existence, but I remind myself I’m not here for a murder spree. I need him living, so Seraphina doesn’t carry that guilt. Slowly, I pull the blade free, watching blood ooze across the polished desk. He clutches his impaled hand, breath rasping.

“Next time,” I warn, “it won’t be so clean.”

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