Page 136 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I force my bleary vision into focus. I have to move. Get up. Do something.

No more bystander Joy.

No more passive Joy.

No more take-what-life-gives-me Joy.

I shake off the chains that broke somehow in the wreck and grab the first thing I see: the keys in the ignition. I lurch out of the door that Walsh left open when we crashed into the ditch.

I can hardly see them through the haze of pain and swimming stars in my vision. In fact, I can hardly see anything but flailing limbs, the two men brawling, Richard’s back to me.

I lunge towards them, keys aimed outwards like claws—not Gavril, not my fucking Gavril, you sick piece of shit—and they bury into Richard’s side with a wet crunching sound.

The next part happens slow: Richard roars, twisting around to face me, lunging for me. But somehow, Gavril is already there, his hands seizing around Walsh’s neck from behind.

Walsh’s mouth falls open. His face contorts as he gasps for breath he won’t get. His hands flail behind him ineffectually for Gavril.

This is what a man dying looks like.

I gape at him, his shock, his pain.

The words I want to say are right at the tip of my tongue. In this moment, Richard Walsh represents every man who has ever wanted to harm me.

Damon.

Ruben.

The father who knocked my mom up and left her to raise me alone.

A million other faceless would-be rapists, bastards, and crooks from my dark nights in Tent City.

I want to scream at him,Yeah, how do you like it now, you lying piece of shit? Having no power, being at the mercy of someone who wants to destroy you, to use you for whatever they want and throw you away after? How does it feel to be every poor person you’ve stepped on or fucked over along the way?

And yet, as sounds I’ve never heard come out of any human crackle out of him, as his face goes from pink to red to purple, as he hurtles towards death right in front of me, my hand goes to Gavril’s, and instead of unleashing a lifetime of anger, what I say instead is this:

“Stop.”

Gavril stares at me, as if he’s just now remembering I’m there. His face is marred with longing and hatred. “He was going to … you do know what he was going to do to you?”

I nod. “I know. Rape me. Hurt me. Destroy me.” I shake my head. “Still, killing him—it’s not right.”

“But all the people he’s killed—”

“That’s not for us to decide.” My grip on his forearm tightens as Richard slumps unconscious. “Gavril, please. For me.”

I can see the decision taking place across his face—the refusal, the uncertainty, then, finally, the acceptance.

He lets Walsh go.

The unconscious man slumps to the ground. “Fine. But the cleanup, the explanation to the press—I’m doing that how I see fit.”

I find that I’m smiling, against all odds. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He’s smiling too. The thin, sad smile of a man who thinks he has lost everything, even his cares. “So.”

“So—how did you even know where to find me? How did you …”

He quirks a brow. “That’s the first thing you want to say to me?”

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