Page 7 of Last Hand

Mikhail was bleeding, gasping. The man turned to me, smug, already bored, before pulling a blade from his pocket to finish him off. Yet there was something in his gaze that told me there were bigger monsters than Mikhail and I had just met one. I didn’t think. I moved. I picked up the gun.

And I shot him.

Twice.

He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even check on Mikhail. Content with starving to death, chained to a wall, as long as I didn’t need to know what that glint in his gaze promised when he looked at me.

Mikhail didn’t speak to me for hours. He didn’t even get his shoulder stitched until morning. When he did, he looked at me differently. Not with gratitude. Not even with anger. Just... ownership.

“You could’ve let him kill me,” he said, voice hoarse as his half-brother dug a bullet from his shoulder. I didn’t answer, I knew the asshole was way worse then Mikhail, I was content with death; although, I had no intentions of being raped to it.

“But you didn’t,” Mikhail said casually while I glared at the fireplace.

“Better the devil you know.”

He laughed.

I turned my sharp gaze to him. He dared to laugh at me when I am the only reason he is still alive?

He dipped his head slightly while his brother was finger deep in his shoulder, still fighting with flesh for that bullet. Not once did he flinch, hiss, or show any indication he was in pain when he spoke.

“Good girl,” he murmured. The next day, he moved me into the master bedroom.

Now, years later, I live in a gilded cage. A wife in name only. My shackles are invisible now, though a lot tighter now the twins have arrived. The day I learned I was pregnant with them, I tried to get rid of them with a coat hanger. I was barely six weeks along, and I snuck a pregnancy test in via a maid who was killed the same day. So the day he caught me with that coat hanger, I was under strict supervision. Then, when I tried to run with them, when they were two days old, that supervision became another chain around my ankle.

Two feet of movement.

The maids brought the babies in to feed. Then they took them away again. I saw them through fogged-up eyes, still healing from childbirth, from beatings, from never-ending silence that threatened to steal my mind.

I stopped fighting. But things changed. Slowly. Mikhail got busy. Distracted. Greedy. He started letting me out again—supervised, of course. There were guards, cameras, and a GPS tracker embedded in my neck. Instead, I learned. I waited.

The coffee’s cold before I realize I haven’t taken a single sip, ignoring the shuffling with his newspaper, pulling me back from memories I much rather forget. Gazing at the clock on the wall,I’ve been standing at this window for twenty-three minutes. I know because I checked the time the moment Mikhail went outside. Every second he’s out there with them makes me more nervous. So far, he hasn’t screamed. He never does at the girls; that voice is only reserved for me. He’s just sitting, watching them with a blank face and a cigarette burning between his fingers.

It’s never just that. Not with him. I fucked up the other night when I questioned why she was here; he is suspicious and is showing me how easily he can take them away while I remain trapped in this prison.

I shift my weight slightly, just enough to peek out the gauzy curtain without drawing attention by ripping it completely open. Mila’s got her shoelace untied again, and Anya is pointing at it, bossy and loud like her father.

They’re innocent. Blissfully so. I envy them for that. I hate myself for letting them be born into this.

Mikhail stands, stretching, and moves to help her tie her laces. He peers up toward the house as he ties the last knot. My stomach twists instantly under that gaze. I raise my coffee like a toast and give him a soft smile, I don’t feel—my mouth curves, though the smile feels pained.

He gives a slight nod and turns his back again, and I let the curtain fall.

My hands are already sweating, not from heat, it’s from nerves. I haven’t done anything yet, and I’m already terrified of being caught.

I glance down at my clothes: casual, clean, and deliberately unremarkable. Neutral tones. Submissive shades. Mikhail no longer allows red. Before that, it was purple. Anything that might draw attention is off-limits. At this point, I should just stick to black—at least then I’ll be dressed appropriately for my own funeral.

Not that it would stop him. He’d probably find a reason to ban black next, claim I was mourning someone I shouldn’t be.

The last time I wore red, he accused me of flirting with his second-in-command in the casino restrooms. His dead second-in-command. In reality, I was trying to figure out what the hell my daughter was doing with a man like Leone Pressutti.

Now, much to Mikhail’s ongoing paranoia, Igor is back on guard duty. He thinks I need supervision and wants to make sure I’m not getting on my knees for his men.

The thought makes me roll my eyes as if I’d waste a kneecap on any of them.

Now I’m running out of time. I’ve prepared this for months. Slowly. Quietly. A little at a time. Earning back his slivers of trust, learning Fallon is here now, makes everything more dire. Once finally back here in my home country, I planned to make one final bid at escape. Her presence, though, now makes it more dire than ever. Mikhail will kill her the moment he seizes control of whatever he has planned with Leone.

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