Page 91 of Beautiful Scar

“You really don’t know?” He digs his toe into my foot. I groan, jerking away, and start crawling again. He follows along happily. “Your father made a deal with my father. He didn’t tell you? My god, here I was thinking I had a shitty family, but wow, that’s unbelievable.” He laughs like he’s actually delighted. “My dad was a politician. Lots of clout where it mattered. And your father decided it was better to show mercy and make my father owe him a favor than it was to end my stupid drug-addict life. So instead, I was sent away to this ugly rehab place for three long years.” He stomps on me again and I cry out, but this time I lash out with a piece of glass I grab from the ground. It slices into his shin and he hisses in pain, jerking back.

I use the car to drag myself to my feet as he curses and kicks his foot around.

I’m hurting in a thousand different places and I’m terrified for the baby. I keep thinking about Tigran, about our child. About everything I’ve gone through and how much stronger I’ve gotten.

And now, this bastard’s back in my life.

“How are you here?” I ask, slicing the glass in the air to keep him back.

He’s not smiling anymore. “Your husband started killing members of my family. I just couldn’t have that. I’ve been watching you, Dasha darling, just like the old days. Imagine how excited I was when I realized Tigran Sarkissian married you. My god, the coincidence. It’s too delicious.”

He jerks forward, catches my wrist, and turns it. I gasp in pain, dropping the glass. He draws a gun and jams it to my neck.

“Fuck you,” I whisper, staring into his eyes. “You should be dead, you sick fuck.”

“And now you’re going to be. Sorry, Dasha, but I can’t let the Sarkissians and the Zeitsevs actually make this stupid alliance work. Nothing personal, just like last time.”

I struggle, spitting curses, but he’s twice my size and way stronger.

This can’t be happening. I can’t die, not right now, not after learning about the baby.

We had a future. We had a life. And now mine’s forfeit, and my baby’s going to die with me.

Tigran’s child. The love of my world.

All my heart bled out onto the concrete.

There’s a roar. I think it’s my captor pulling the trigger, but instead it’s a person falling from the top of the car. Vito slams down on top of us, knocking the gun away.

The men start to struggle and curse. I skin my palms catching myself before my head smashes on the street. Vito’s like a wild animal, but he’s old and my captor’s young, and it doesn’t last long. My captor shoves Vito away, the old man gasping in pain, and rips a knife from a sheath at his hip.

He stabs Vito right in the chest, sinking the blade to the hilt with a snarl.

I scream and throw myself forward. I hit my captor in the back, punching and kicking wildly, screaming and crying as blood bubbles out of the wound. Vito coughs, gasping in horrified pain, both hands holding the end of the knife as my captor releases it and stumbles away under my assault.

I hit blindly, rage driving me into a frenzy. There are more voices around us now. Witnesses, people from other cars, from a nearby bodega, all of them watching. I’m dimly aware that they’re on the phone and calling the police. My captor falls backward, snarling at me, but stops when he notices all the attention.

“Lucky bitch,” he barks and turns away. I stand there, hands curled into bloody fists, a defiant scream on my lips, as he turns and runs. Two bystanders try to stop him, but he knocks one over and hits the other before sprinting around a corner.

“Vito.” I run to him and drag the old man into my lap. “Oh, god, Vito.”

“Dasha,” he whispers, eyes fluttering.

I try to stop the bleeding. I leave the knife in because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? You leave the knife in? But there’s too much blood welling up around the blade and he’s got blood on his lips. He coughs a spew of it, a fine pink mist off to the side, and his voice is weak as he reaches up to touch my cheek.

“I was a shit person, Dasha,” he rasps, fear in his eyes. “But saving you was good. Not a bad way to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere. Hold on, okay? Someone called 911. Please, just hold on.”

“Tigran’s on his way. I sent him an SOS. Please, don’t blame yourself. Strength, Dasha, strength.” He coughs again and grimaces. “Strength, Dasha.”

“No, please, Vito—” His eyes slowly close. His breathing is shallow and pained, and pink bubbles foam at the corners of his mouth. “Vito! Wake up, please, you can’t die right now!”

The bubbles stop, and his chest stops rising with them.

“Please, Vito,” I say, sobbing. This old man has been nothing but good to me. He was kind when I first came. He drew me out of my room and helped me gain confidence again. He was the first person I told about the baby. Tears spatter down onto his unmoving face. “Oh, god, please, Vito.”

Then a car screams to a stop nearby. A door slams closed. And someone’s at my side. I struggle when they try to pull me from Vito’s body until I realize it’s Tigran.

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