Page 48 of Unexpected Redemption

Something to look forward to for later, I suppose.

Unlike last time he went to do hot guy shit, I didn’t make him promise not to kill anyone. He already knows.

On the other hand, I made it clear I’m a-okay with Yev suffering a little before he’s turned over to the cops. If I left that nightmare house with bruised ribs, cigarette burns, belt marks, cuts, and bruises all over my body, Yev deserves some of the same. It’s only fair.

Aside from my right knee bobbing around like it’s powered by a jackhammer, my stomach is twisting and turning. It’s the kind of nausea where it’s uncomfortable to breathe. A permanent weight presses on the outside of my throat near my collarbones. This is maybe the fourth time today I’ve been hit with this.

Thoroughly ignoring why that may be the case.

The urge to chew my nails to the nubs is so compelling I tuck my hands under my legs to stop it.

When I catch myself sliding them out of their thigh prison, I shove them back and spin in the chair to distract myself.

On my third rotation, my eyes catch on the whiteboard filled with Redleg’s master plan. I dig my heel into the carpet to halt my twirling.

More items have been crossed off since I last gave it more than a fleeting glance. There are also plenty of new items up there—names, notes, circles, squiggly lines, and arrows. It reminds me of a playboard in a football team’s locker room.

Only this isn’t a game tossing the pigskin around. It’s a sickening tragedy. A repulsive infection in humanity that needs to be eradicated.

The columns across the top of the board are a testament to how the greatest fear humans should have is our fellow man. Men like this, at least.

So much evil for one family.

Why?

For what?

Money? Power? Or do they simply enjoy making people suffer?

Do men like Viktor and his father, Nikolai, go their entire lives lacking a functioning conscience?

Even without the trafficking, any one of the other categories is horrid on its own—drugs, guns, money laundering, cyber-attacks, and whatever internal crimes covers. I’d wager a guess, but I’m already queasy.

The entire picture of what the Lenkov Bratva does is repugnant. Despicable beyond measure. I can’t even come up with some of my colorful Lettie-isms to describe it, which speaks volumes.

My vision catches on two words—the box. I glance at Mia and Klein to determine which of them might be more likely to talk to me. Klein appears more intense, as if he’s working overtime to concentrate. Mia, on the other hand, is calm. Serene almost. Her fingers fly over the keys faster than a hawk hunting a snake in the tall summer grass.

Snakes.Shudder.

They’re almost as bad as the damn lizards that hang around every sidewalk and patch of nature in Florida. Constant jump scares every time I dare to walk to my car. That’s one thing I wasn’t prepared for when I came here.

Well, that and basically everything else.

“Mia, what’sthe box?”

Her fingers freeze, and she pitches a glance at me over her shoulder. Before she answers, her vision rapidly drops to my jittery knee. I willfully halt the comforting tic.

“Tomer didn’t ask you about that?”

I shake my head while answering, “He was supposed to?”

“Yeah. Did he?”

“Um.” Carefully, I peel back my memories of the last few days, one layer at a time. Many moments are hazy at best, which is typical for me and my top-tier brain. “No. What was he supposed to ask?”

I’m hit with a memory of Tasha’s hidey hole in the hell house. Surely, that can’t be the box listed on the grease board, though. Right?

If it is, that explains why he wouldn’t have brought it up. He’s seen me triggered too many times, and his protective nature likely makes him cautious of what he says around me. Not to mention, he’s been doing a million different things for this entire case. He’s only human. How much can one man handle?

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