Page 117 of Santa Daddy
Mercy was something men with fewer enemies could afford.
He nodded once and melted back into the trees, leaving me alone with the decision I’d just made. Another war. More deadmen. Another step down into the dark I’d been trying to climb out of since she stepped into that alley.
This is who you are, the old voice whispered. A man who ends things permanently.
But when I turned back toward the cabin, toward the strip of lamplight and the woman waiting inside, something else stirred under the rage.
Peace.
For once, I knew exactly why I was going to kill.
I slipped back in,boots quiet on the warped wood.
Dani sat on the edge of the bed in the tiny back room, dressed, boots on, eyes on the door. She tracked my movement like someone who’d already made peace with the idea that death might be on the other side.
“How bad?” she asked. No preamble. Straight to the vein.
She always saw through whatever bullshit I tried to wrap things in.
“Bad enough,” I said, sitting beside her. The mattress dipped under our combined weight. “Maksim has more backing than we thought. It’s not just family. It’s organized.”
Her hand slid to her stomach. Reflex. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. Fear flickered across her face and then vanished under that stubborn, sideways courage I’d fallen for before I had the sense to stop.
“How long?” she asked.
“A day.” I reached for her, fingers brushing her knee. I needed the contact like oxygen. “Maybe less.”
She leaned into my touch, but her muscles stayed taut, a live wire wrapped in soft skin.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
Before I could answer, something moved at the edge of my vision.
A flicker outside the grimy window. Pre-dawn dark made everything hazy, but there—between the trees—something broke the pattern.
I stood, hand dropping automatically to the gun under the pillow. On the rickety nightstand, an old monitor flickered on—some half-functional piece of security the cabin’s previous occupant had jerry-rigged.
A grainy image appeared: a masked figure ghosting through the trees, testing the perimeter. Slow. Professional. Gun low and ready.
One scout meant more behind him.
Dani saw it too. Her breath caught.
“Konstantin—”
“I know.” I was already moving, the last vestiges of warmth burning off, leaving only lethal focus. I checked the Glock, then the knife at my back, then the extra magazine.
“Get your shoes tight,” I said. “We may have to move fast.”
“Where—”
“Don’t argue.” I met her eyes long enough to make sure the message landed. “When I say run, you run. You don’t look back. You don’t stop, you don’t wait. If I’m not behind you, you keep going.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not leaving you.”
“You will if I tell you to,” I said. “That’s the deal.”
It wasn’t really a deal. We both knew she’d fight me on it. But I had to say it. Had to pretend there was a version of events where I let her choose the kind of suicide that stayed instead of the kind that ran into gunfire.
