Page 90 of Hateful Vows
He sees me coming.
Stops in his tracks and braces for impact with eyes dark and a vicious snarl on his face. I don’t let that face I know so well disturb me. I tackle him to the ground, shoulder to his stomach. The fall knocks air out of his lungs but he recovers quickly.
Gio slashes a hunting knife to my sides and I hiss but don’t relent. With my hands fitted with brass-knuckles on both hands, I punch him. Over and over. Anywhere I can reach as we battle for dominance on the ground like animals.
We’re evenly matched in strength.
And in hate.
I break his wrist and he lets go of the knife with a howl, but this is a man who isn’t a stranger to pain. He uses that same broken wrist to throw his hand up under my jaw. I wasn’t expecting it and fall on my back. Gio doesn’t waste a second, throwing himself on top of me. He straddles my chest and presses strong hands on my throat, cutting air and blood flow.
No matter how much I thump my fists to his sides, he doesn’t let go. The lack of oxygen makes itself known. I lose momentum. White light edges at the corners of my vision. His face wobbles above me.
Then, he’s gone.
I inhale sharply. Coughing, turning on my side and heaving air into my lungs.
Ilia and Dan are wrestling him to the ground. Gio goes feral and bites Ilia at the throat, blood pouring from his mouth. The sight is sickening. And we’ve all had enough. Boris looms over the three men. He cracks the butt of his machine gun on Gio’s temple and finally, the man slumps down on the low mountain floor.
Ilia’s neck looks worse for wear, a deep indent of teeth marks marring his skin, the wound close to his jugular and seeping blood steadily.
“Boris,” I bark his name. “Help Ilia. He’s losing too much blood.”
My friend and second-in-command vacillates on his legs and drops to his knees.
“Stay with us,” Boris commands, slapping his hand to Ilia’s face and wrapping his wound in a tight grip, using the whole bottle of skin-safe glue on his neck. It will have to do until we can bring him to a hospital.
I shake my head, trying to bring focus back. I’m panting, blood oozing from the wound at my side and my clothes torn in multiple places where Gio reached with his knife.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Ian says as he holds out his hand to bring me up to my feet.
“We got him, Irina,” I tell her in the comm’s piece. “We got him. Let’s go home.”
With the effectiveness of soldiers on a mission, we reach Irina’s team, Lorenzo, Toma and Lucie at her side, and take a boat back to Islay. I can’t help but take worried looks at Dante’s prone body on the stretcher.
When we reach the jet, I carry him in my arms up the steps and into the bedroom at the back of the plane. I’m careful as I lay him down on the bed. Tears won’t fall, but I’m so distraught,I don’t know what to do with myself. I turn to Irina who’s on the verge of falling apart.
That’s where my place is. At her side, lending her a bit of my strength, even if I don’t have any left. She resists when I embrace her in my arms in the privacy of the little room. Then her body relaxes. Shakes with silent sobs. Until she melts down into my arms, dropping to her knees as the pain and angst that held her up leave her all at once.
I hold her, following on my knees and letting her cry in my arms for as long as she wants.
My jaw is clenched tight so I don’t release a cry of grief myself. This is her moment. Not mine.
“We almost lost him. He could’ve?—”
“I know,malyshka. But he’s here. He’s here.”
She nods mindlessly against my chest and I’d rip out the beating organ in it to give it to her if I’d know it’d help her. But what we both need is purpose. We still have an hour until we reach our home. As I say the word in my head, the penthouse comes into my mind, Perceval meowing as we enter the warm space that is now a safe haven for us. I long to be home with them both, the cat purring loudly at our feet.
“Let’s clean him up, Irina. He deserves the dignity of fresh clothes and clean skin.”
With soft hands used to pain and violence, we move Dante’s body to remove the filthy rags that cover him. We wash his skin with a clean cloth, comb his hair. The repetitive movements are soothing despite the sight of emaciated limbs and injection marks. His usually golden olive skin has taken on a clay shade I hate, and his cheeks lack the rosy hue of health.
I swallow around bile and help him into a set of warm brown lounge wear.
When we’re done, we’ve landed in London. Our team drives us home, doctors and nurses at the ready to bring Dante back to us.
Mikhail, Boris and Lorenzo bind Gio and drop him at the mansion, in chains in the basement, while Ian, Lucie, and Toma take Ilia to the hospital.
