Page 34 of Her Darkest Possession
I give Killian a quick look and his eyes meet mine. There's a flash of something else there, his own personal disgust at Grisha's disrespect towards him.
And then he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
Message received.
I raise my hands slowly, palms out. "Fine, Grisha. You win." I do my best to make my voice sound defeated and hollow. "I'm leaving."
Grisha's eyes narrow with suspicion, but I can see the triumph starting to bloom across his face. Slowly, he pulls the gun barrel away from Amara's head, just enough that I can breathe again.
"That's right, you fucking bitch," he sneers, his knee still pressing into Amara's back. "Run home to your whore. And when we're done here, I'll send you pictures of all the fun we had with her little sister." His lips curl into something grotesque. "Maybe I'll even send you pictures while we take turns?—"
I don't let him finish.
In one fluid motion, I pivot and launch my foot directly into Grisha's face. There's a sickening crunch as my shoe connects with his nose and cheekbone. Blood sprays in an arc across the floor.
Roma and Vassily spring up beside me at once. Roma throws himself forward, grabs Grisha's hand holding the gun, and give it a hard twist to force the weapon out of his fingers.
Vassily grabs a whiskey glass, smashes it against the table edge, and drives the jagged remains into Grisha's other hand. Grisha howls in agony as the glass slices through tendons and veins.
His fingers spasm open and releases the leash.
With his free hand, Vassily yanks Amara back behind him, shielding her with his body.
Roma passes the gun to me, and I aim it directly at Grisha's bleeding face.
The clicking of multiple weapons being cocked echoes through the club. I glance up to see we're surrounded. Every man in the club has drawn their weapon. Bouncers, bartenders, even some of the patrons.
And every single gun is pointed at us.
I stare down at Grisha's bloodied face, and feel satisfaction blooming when fear replacing the cockiness on his face.
I shrug out of my jacket with one arm and hold it behind me. Vassily takes it from me and drapes it over Amara's shoulders.
Fabric rustles as she shrinks under the jacket. Then, I turn to face Killian, lowering the gun as I do.
"I told you, I just want the girl. Nothing else."
Killian's face is unreadable as he studies the scene before him. His jaw works for a moment before he extends his hand.
"The gun please, Baryshev."
I hand it over without hesitation. Once the weapon is in his possession, Killian makes a casual gesture with his free hand. The tension in the room dissipates as his men lower their weapons.
Two burly Irishmen stride forward and grab Grisha by the arms, hauling him to his feet. Blood drips from his shattered nose and glass-impaled hand.
"Are you serious about what you said?" Killian asks. "Is the girl really family?"
"Yes," I say firmly. "That's my wife's sister."
Killian looks down at Grisha with disgust, then back at me.
"And this is why I never wanted to do deals with you Russian pricks," he tells Grisha. "Too unpredictable. Too much fucking ego." His eyes find mine again. "I'm guessing that's also why you didn't want to fucking marry his sister."
"Correct," I confirm.
A hint of respect crosses Killian's face. "Glad to see that you have some fucking respect for my authority on my own turf."
"There are still some Russians who understand the meaning of the word honor," I reply evenly.
