Page 61 of The Price of Mercy
Witnessingsomeone’s heart break is a funny thing.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about it—sympathetic or mournful, maybe—but in the end, I can’t dictate my emotions. My heart does its own thing and lets me know,hey, Zane, guess what?
I’m fucking relieved, and I’m a shitty fucking person for it.
Our car ride to the bratva’s hidden medical facility known colloquially asThe Boxis done in complete silence. Normally, this would be my preference. I don’t have to listen to Kane prattle on about paint colors or Mercy whine about whatever is bothering her on this particular day, which leaves me to my thoughts. But between the shooting, intense pain in my arm and the weak flutter of relief in my chest, I hardly have any room left for coherent words, even inside my head.
What I do feel isgoodbut also somehowbad.
As the medical staff whisks me away, I go through the motions of treatment. Gritting my teeth when they take x-rays, closing my eyes when they set the break, sighing with relief once they finally administer pain meds in an IV hooked to my arm. Took them long enough. I sit up in one of the beds lining the back wall of the facility and stare blankly at thepartitions separating the triage and treatment areas. The Box has experienced doctors and state-of-the-art equipment, but keeping it under the feds’ radar means that it has to sacrifice modern comforts like private rooms to remain discreet—much like how I’ve been running my life with Kane.
We keep our heads down, don’t kick up too much trouble, and lay low so that we can continue living however we want.
In the span of—God, weeks?—Mercy and Sam have blown that lifestyle to pieces.
I still don’t know how Samuel Wright found us at the cabin, but in the end, I guess it doesn’t matter. The consequences have already begun. Sam’s either neck-deep in his father’s machinations right now or he’s treading water as he tries to resist. I’m not holding my breath for Sam’s success, nor am I delusional enough to think that he gives a rat’s ass about me or Kane. Our lives, as far as I’m concerned, are forfeit. It was only a matter of time, sure, but I had been hoping to steal some time back from Mercy. Take a few years off of her life and add it to mine, or to Kane’s, like I’m some sort of powerful deity or devil who can manipulate time and space like that. I scoff aloud at my idiocy. Going to the cabin and pretending we could somehow wring drops of life from Mercy’s body was wishful thinking, after all, and not the least bit practical.
Nothing could save us once Samuel got involved.
Heavy footfalls approach from my right. I ignore them. Kane’s likely pulling his hair out in a corner somewhere, and Mercy is trying to persuade one of the medical staff to let her use their phone to call her dad. Whoever else is around doesn’t concern me.
But apparently, I concern them.
“I did not expect to see you here,” a heavy Russian accent rumbles. I stare at the unlit cigarette Ezra Reinoff,vortothe Bratva’spakhan, rolls between his fingers. “Did prey fight back?”
This isn’t a conversation I can ignore. I open my mouth and taste menthol on his breath. “Something like that.”
Ezra grunts. “Is target dead?”
No, she’s standing right over there.
He follows my gaze to Mercy. “She is Morningstar girl.”
I’d be surprised that he knew who she was, except that’s kind of his job as the official bodyguard for the bratva’s king and queen—Baranova something or other. I don’t keep up with criminal royalty well enough to remember their full names. Ezra, however, is the exception because he’s the one who contracts Kane and me for clean-up jobs. Still, I don’t want to think about Mercy more than I already do, so I steer the conversation another direction. “What areyoudoing here, Ezra?”
“Physical exam is important.”
Lifting my gaze, I give him a once-over. He’s not exactly old. “You worried about something?”
“No.” After a moment, he taps the butt of his cigarette against his thigh. “But Morningstar girl is upset. Why?”
Do I really have to explain the downfall of my life to this fucking guy? I crinkle my nose. I guess I am in his territory and using his facility and its resources without explicit permission. Begrudgingly, I hold open the window for Ezra to peek into my life. “Samuel Wright has dirt on her family.” I adjust my position to try and ease the ache in my arm, but nothing helps. Sighing, I watch as Mercy thanks the staff member and runs off with a cell phone in hand. “He says that he owns the Morningstars—all except Lilith. Not that he doesn’t want her, too, but she’s wrapped up in some other contract.”
A contract. Legally binding. How would Wright have a document giving him ownership of people? It’s illegal, for starters, and fucking weird on top of that. My thoughts drift tomarriage and how binding that is, tying people’s assets together under the guise of love. It’s fucking stupid, is what it is. You don’t have to sign your independence away to prove that you love someone.
Ezra scratches the stubble lining his jaw. The tattoos wrapped around his arm shift in the lowlight. “So he owns property. Maybe in illegal trade or fine print. Easy to change document of ownership, yes, but also easy to change back. Especially if won in card game. Then it is not binding.”
I doubt Mercy’s father gambled away their home. “Morningstar doesn’t seem like the type.”
“Does Vinicius have debts?”
“How should I know?”
“Debt,” Ezra murmurs, “is pressure cooker. It builds until it explodes, and people become desperate to ease burden. But maybe not debt. Maybe…” He mumbles something under his breath, and I have to strain to hear him. “Exchange. Mutually beneficial.”
The ache in my arm spreads to my chest, and I rub my sternum. “Mutually beneficial exchanges don’t exist. Someone always gets fucked over.”
There’s a brief moment of silence. “You are bitter about girl?”
