Chapter 25 TWENTY FIVE

Chapter 25 TWENTY FIVE
SERGEI MOROZOV’S POV

“Words,” I commanded the trembling man before me.

“W–w–we—”

“We–we–we?” I arched a brow, my patience thinning. “Try again and correctly this time. You're not supposed to be here, Rus. I want to punch your fucking face in for coming here. What the fuck is wrong with you? I made the rules clear many years ago, if we want Rosie to stay alive,  you do not come here. Not if you're sick, not if you're being chased, not even if you're dying. It's safer for her that way. But since you're here now, use words! Do not push me beyond my limits. Why are you here?” 

Ruslan Ferrantes took huge greedy gulps of air like a drowning rat. “We got attacked,” he finally spat out. 

Simultaneously, the sound of music down the hall turned off. 

I heard the sharp clang of a fork on ceramic.

Then, the wheels.

My head swung right. “Rosie, stay out of this.” And back to her twin. “You or everyone?”

“Not just me. All of us. Me. Ova. Pavel. I already—”

“When.”

“This morning.”

“Where?”

“At the safehouse… we were secured, I swear. Anyone who was getting in or getting out had to use the fucking codes. We changed it immediately after we settled for the night. No one was coming in. No one was going out….” he took a pause, trying to catch his breath. “Ova deployed thirty five men outside like you told him to.”

“And?” I queried, my head in a tilt. 

“All of them were killed.”

“All thirty five?”

“ALL. OF. THEM. Sergei.”

Over the past few weeks, before and after Malachi Vescovi’s death, we’d taken over four hundred of his men. The ones in Oklahoma,  L.A., Boston, New York, Moscow. It had been easy to find them when we had one as a hostage. But using his personal security could only go so far. We'd found 400, we'd found Judea, but hadn’t been able to get one. Elio Marino. The man, the myth, the demon. He was the right hand man to Malachi Vescovi and a fucking threat to me. Always slipping out of my damn fingers. Two nights ago was the closest we got to him. On the campus ground at the University of Massachusetts. Mckenna’s Cafe. One Anya had a serial addiction to. I’d watched her across the room, on her fourth cup of coffee, like I sometimes did. But that night, I hadn’t been her only predator. Elio had been there too, right in the clutches of I and my men. He spotted us and immediately took off. And in the alleyway, I’d shot at him with my own hands. More than once, but he'd managed to escape.

I took another step forward.

“Rus,” I whispered, “You got attacked. Thirty five well-trained men just dropped dead. An attack that we had been baiting for days. And not one of you held the line?” 

His throat bobbed.

“Sergei—”

“Shut up.” I shoved him back until his spine hit the wall. “We don’t lose thirty-five men unless someone fucks up. Or someone lets them in.”

“We didn’t—”

“You changed the codes.”

“Yes.”

“You doubled the perimeter.”

“Yes.”

“You followed protocol.”

“Yes.”

“And they still walked in and butchered everyone?”

“Not everyone, Ova, Pavel and I made it out.”

“And Bunny?” I asked. 

His silence gave me the answer I needed.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Rosie’s chair stop at the edge of the hallway, quietly. 

My jaw locked.

“You know what that means, right?” I asked Ruslan. “It means they knew where to hit. When to hit. How long they had. Too planned for a man I fucking shot in the thigh.”

His breathing went ragged. “Sergei, I swear to you—”

“I’m not talking about loyalty yet,” I cut in. “I’m talking about judgment.”

I leaned in, forearm braced beside his head, trapping him there. “You were raised better than this.”

That landed.

Ruslan swallowed hard. “We panicked.”

I laughed once. “Panicked? Your father didn’t panic when he watched mine get tortured. He fought till his last breath. Died like a fucking man.” 

Milo Ferrantes had been the right hand man of my father, the same way that his son was mine now. Rosie, Ruslan Ferrantes were raised side-by-side by my siblings and I. Or rather, I watched them grow. They were eight the night of the attack. They—Rosíe especially—had become my responsibility to protect. I would lay my life for her if it meant she got to live a few seconds longer. The same way Ferrantes had risked his life for me so many times when we were younger. 

Ruslan’s eyes met his sister's briefly. A shared communication I didn’t really understand. 

“You know what I learned about responsibilities, Rus,” I murmured, “You don't run. You don't lead danger home.”

“I’m not stupid enough to lead danger to Rosie. Or you. Or…” He paused as his eyes darted to the door behind me. I could almost feel the curse words dancing at the tip of his tongue. “Or the Vescovi you married. Ova and Pavel made sure the coast was clear before we came here. We escaped just after the safehouse got blown apart. We had no phones. I had to let you know one way or the other. Our cars, our men, our house, all blown to shit, Sergei! They weren't looking for you, they were looking for HER….” His eyes shot to the door behind me again. Anya.  “And no, it wasn't Elio. The men who attacked us weren't speaking Italian..they didn't fucking know English too. They only knew one word and it was her name. But we got one of them. We brought him to you.”

Every form of arousal I'd felt when I walked out the door was now bubbling into pure, maddening anger. 

Once again, my head swung down the hallway.

“Rosíe,” I snapped, switching to Russian without thinking. “Иди в свою комнату. Сейчас.” ‘Go to your room. Now.’

She froze, fingers tightening around the wheels.

Wordlessly, she turned and began to roll away until:

“Wait.” I commanded again. 

Her chair stopped.

“On second thoughts….”