Chapter 188 188

Chapter 188 188
I can do this. I can fucking do this.

I’m going to kill her.

Suddenly, I see someone approaching. For a second, I think it must be backup. Must be someone else Xena had hidden away in the room, here to finish the job in case something went awry.

But it’s Elise.

She grabs Xena’s uninjured hand and starts prying her fingers away from me.

“Elise!” I shout. The single word is enough for her to know what I mean.

Be careful. Stay safe. Get out of here.

Xena stumbles, falls, and lands back on her ass. Her eyes are wide as she tries to scramble away like a crab.

“You can go,” she gasps, clutching her shredded arm to her chest. Her fine clothes are bloodstained and dusty from the warehouse floors. I’ve never seen her so out of sorts, so uncomposed. “I’ll let you go.”

I move towards her, brandishing the knife. “You’re not going to let me do anything. I’m calling the shots now, you fucking psycho.”

“Please,” Xena begs. “Please, Belle. I wasn’t going to kill you. I just wanted to scare you. I didn’t want anyone to die. I can get a doctor here in a minute to save Nikolai. Let me live, and I’ll save him.”

A dark part of me wants to let Xena beg. I want to make her plead for her life the way she wanted me to. I want to give her hope that I’ll be merciful and then snatch it away. I want this powerful woman to be brought to her knees and know what it means to be afraid.

But that would make me just like her.

Instead, I don’t say a word. I just raise the knife high over my head.

“No, Belle!” she gasps. “Please. Don’t do—”

And I bring it plunging down into her chest.

I let it go and stumble backwards, wheezing from the effort. I watch her the whole time. I’m expecting her to rise up again. To, against all odds, stand up and lunge at me.

But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Xena Simatou is dead.

I’m still watching her when Elise runs to me and throws her arms around my middle. “Belle,” she sobs. “What do we do? What do we do now?”

Numbly, I hug her back. I can still feel the vibrations of the blade striking bone as they careen up and down my arm. I have a feeling this sensation will be seared into my body’s memory for the rest of my life.

Over Elise’s shoulder, Howard is lying in a heap on the floor. Then I turn around and see Nikolai. He looks peaceful, almost like he’s napping. Like this could all be a bad dream.

I wish it was a dream.

I shake my head. “I don’t—We get help. We need help.”

As the words come out of my mouth, I hear a commotion at the front of the building. Instantly, I pull Elise behind me.

If it’s the Greeks or the Battiatos, I can’t take them with one knife. But maybe I can buy time for Elise to escape.

Then Christo bursts through the door.

His eyes land on mine. For a second, neither of us know if we can trust the other. Is he working for the Greeks? Am I?

I do the only thing I can think to do—I point to Nikolai’s body. “Help him. Please.”

Christo sees Nikolai and curses under his breath. He sprints across the warehouse floor, a string of men flocking behind him. A rail-thin older man surges past Christo in a surprising burst of speed and drops down next to Nikolai.

“My son.”

Nikolai’s father. I can see the family resemblance. The strong jaw and broad shoulders. They have the same build, though his bulk looks to have been eaten away by hard years.

He presses his fingers to Nikolai’s wrist, and I hold my breath. I prepare myself for the news I will never be prepared for. For the heartbreak I know I won’t survive.

“Well?” Christo snaps.

Nikolai’s father sighs. “He’s still alive. There’s a pulse.”

I want to collapse with relief. But this isn’t over yet.

The small faction of men moves quickly. They carry Nikolai out and then Howard. Elise and I trail behind in a daze, arms wrapped around each other, too shocked to speak or act.

We’re caught in the wild current of the night—of this life—and the only thing to do is hold on.

Hold onto hope.

Hold onto faith.

Hold onto each other.

EPILOGUE: NIKOLAI

ONE YEAR LATER

I drop down onto the bench I donated to the cemetery and look over the headstone. It’s white marble, tall and narrow, shining in the early evening light. Very phallic.

Arslan would love it.

“Happy birthday, you miserable bastard,” I say, hanging the wreath of white roses off the side of the headstone. “I never would have gotten you flowers if you were still alive, just so we’re clear. But I can’t get you anything else, can I?”

I pause, waiting for a response I know will never come.

It’s strange—even after over a year without my best friend, I expect to hear his voice all the time. But I cover over the sadness with the sound of my own.

“Actually, that’s not true. I lobbied for my son to be named after you, but Belle and I had a girl. And we both know it’s the thought that counts.” I sigh and lean back on the bench. “Maybe next time. Fuck, do you hear me?” I snort. “‘Maybe next time’? Apparently I’m a man who is casual about having a family now. If you weren’t already dead, you’d die hearing that. I can’t believe it, either. But Belle makes it easy.”

Belle makes everything easy.

She killed Xena and put to end one of the most dramatic chapters of my life. While I was recovering from my gunshot wound, Belle took care of me even as she was growing our daughter. And now, Inessa is five months old and, despite not ever having a parent as an example of how to raise a child, Belle has been a wonderful mother. She’s completely devoted to our daughter.

My phone rings and I pull it out of my pocket. “Speaking of the devil.” I answer. “Hello, honey.”

“Don’t ‘honey’ me,” Belle laughs. “You were supposed to be here by now.”

She and I have been invited to a ceremony, but there wasn’t time to drop off Inessa at the babysitter’s and stop by the cemetery, so we split up. My chore is taking a little longer than expected, though.

“Everyone is looking at me like I’m a leper,” she whispers into the phone. “I can’t decide if it’s because I’m a Zhukova or because this dress is fitting my postpartum body weird.”

I’m a Zhukova. Hearing her claim her new identity still sends my blood pumping in a distinctly downward direction.

Plus, the thought of her body is verbal Viagra. Postpartum or not, she still does it for me.