Page 36 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
“Don’t,” she croaks. “You couldn’t have known. No one did. We wouldn’t have gone with him if we knew… if there was any hint…” Her eyes close and silence falls, as if speaking has exhausted her.
Less than two months ago, two men from a rival family swept into one of my clubs and lured out three of my girls with a promise of a good time and more money than they could dream of. It’s not uncommon for rich men with more money than sense to pay obscenely for great sex. But they waited until all three of them had let their guard down and then they kidnapped them. For two weeks, I tore the city apart looking for them and when I found them, I was too late. Anna and Bea were gone. Zoe was clinging to life by a thread, and I never expected her to survive. They were beaten and raped, then left for dead.
My failure was immeasurable.
“Sometimes, I see his face,” Zoe croaks, dragging me from my thoughts. Her eyes open once more. “I remember what he smelled like when he was over me, remember what he felt like when he was in–inside me. I remember Ana holding my hand telling me it was going to be okay, and I still hear the—” She gasps and tears flood her eyes. She reaches for me and I immediately take her hand. “I still hear the sound her skull made when he stamped on her over and over?—”
“Zoe,” I say as gently as I can. “We don’t have to talk about this now.”
“I do,” she whispers, hastily wiping away her tears with her other hand. “Xena brought Harry to see me the other day, and I just…” She winces. “Do you have kids?”
I shake my head. “Someday.”
“He’s why I held on, my son. I think he’s why I even survived. But seeing him… I couldn’t touch him because I felt so dirty, and he didn’t understand. He’s only four. And I couldn’t hold him. What kind of mother does that make me? He wanted to dance with me, but I couldn't do it. I can’t.”
“Zoe, it makes you a good mother. A strong one. You’re hurting and you need to take the time to process and heal. Harry is being taken care of, I promise. So is your mother. I have people on them twenty-four, seven, they’re in a safe place, and all of you will be cared for. Please be gentle with yourself.”
She weeps softly, covering her eyes with her hands. “I don’t want to feel anything,” she whispers.
My head dips, and I stare at her bruised fingers intertwining with mine. “I came to tell you that I got one of them, Zoe.”
Her hand lowers and she fixes me with a pained look. “What?”
“I found one. His name was Hector Popov. The Popov family are old blood but it seems they’ve forgotten the rules of warfare. Whatever. I found him, and I worked him over until he spat out the name of the second man who did this. Soon as I confirmed it, I killed him. He’s dead, Zoe. He’s never going to hurt you, or anyone, ever again.”
Fatter tears flood her eyes and her lower lip wobbles. “And the other one?”
“I’m tracking him down. He won’t be able to hide for long. The entire city’s looking for him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Vincent Antonva.”
“I don’t… I don’t know that one.”
“Small family. Little rat dogs. We took them all out. He’s the only one left with nowhere to go, and once I catch him, I’ll make him suffer. I promise.”
Zoe’s hand tightens in mine. “You’re a good man, Maxim.”
Her words pierce my heart. If I were good, this never would have happened. If I were good, the women under my care wouldn’t be fearing for their lives or struggling to do what they love. If I were good, two of my girls would still be here.
“I wanted to tell you face-to-face,” I say, forcing a smile. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?”
“Sit with me?” she whispers. “Just for a little while.”
I spend two hours with Zoe, making light conversation about anything unrelated to her attack. Mostly, we talk about her son and her plans to spend a portion of her savings on a villa for her family to live in. As much as she loves to dance, her future in her career remains shaky, but she’s steadfast in providing for her loved ones. I deliver the news that I’m married while skipping on a few details. Zoe voices her displeasure at missing the ceremony, but it lifts her spirits for a little while.
I leave when the nurse comes to change her dressings, with a promise to return when I have more news.
Out in the corridor, Rex is buried in a magazine on a leather sofa but he rises the moment he notices me. “How is she?”
“Better. She’s talking more. Full sentences this time.”
“That’s good.” Rex grimaces. “Poor girl.”
“She remembers stuff,” I say as we step into the elevator. “She doesn’t remember who, but she remembers the one who did this to her.”
“Was it Hector or Vinnie?”
