Page 57 of Last Hand

At nineteen minutes, I fill the kettle and set it to boil. I select a mug with a chip on the rim, one the guard has used before. The tea bag goes in first, then the hot water, and finally, from the inner pocket of my apron, the small white pill I crushed last night.

Rohypnol. Fast-acting. A gift from Mikhail himself, pressed into my palm six months ago with instructions that made my blood freeze. “I can always force it down your throat, don’t make me bring Igor in to pin you, you know it makes him hard.” His threat was enough to make me comply. Igor would hold me down while Mikhails’ men fucked me into submission before Mikhail would put a bullet in their heads for being stupid enough to comply with his order. So I knew the consequences of refusing him. I kept the pill saying I must have dropped it and vacuumed it up. Funny how things come full circle.

The pill dissolves, leaving no trace. I stir once, twice, watching the liquid swirl as I add more sugar. Then I tug down the neckline of my shirt—just enough to distract.

“Thought you might be thirsty,” I say, approaching the guard with the mug extended. My voice is honey and smoke, a tone I’d forgotten I possessed.

His eyes drop to my chest before meeting mine. “Always looking out for us, aren’t you, Becca?” The nickname in his mouth sounds wrong, dirty. No one calls me that except this idiot.

“Just being hospitable.” I set the cup down beside him, letting my fingers brush against his. His breath catches—so predictable. “It’s a special blend.”

“Yeah?” He picks it up, inhales the steam. “Smells good.”

“I think you’ll like it.” I smile the way I used to in another life, when manipulating men was a skill I honed when I needed the next hit, rather than a survival tactic.

He drinks it without hesitation, gulping it down like it’s beer instead of scalding tea. No second thoughts, no suspicion—just thirst and the distraction of my neckline. Men like him are all the same, whether they’re carrying guns for the Russian mob or placing bets at a poker table. Flash a bit of skin and they’ll stumble over themselves hoping to feel it beneath their grubby hands like they believe they have a right to.

I linger, making small talk about the weather. All the while, I’m counting seconds in my head, watching for the telltale glaze in his eyes.

It takes only a few minutes. His words begin to slur, his eyelids growing heavy. Confusion crosses his face—a brief flash of alarm before he slumps forward in his chair.

I check his pulse. Steady although it’s a little slow. Good. I didn’t actually kill him. Not that I would be upset if I had. The things he’s done, the ways he’s looked at Fallon when he thought no one was watching—he deserves worse than a drugged nap.

With the hall guard out, I move to the window, peering out at the perimeter of the property. The two guards outsideare already down, collapsed on the ground where they were stationed. The drinks I brought them earlier when I took the washing to the line—another part of my plan, executed hours ago. I’ve been plotting this since I called Nathan, waiting for Mikhail to leave with enough of his men to give us a fighting chance.

It isn’t unusual for me to bring them food and drinks. I’ve never been able to eat in front of people. I’ve always cooked for them. A habit that’s finally proving useful. Three guards down. Igor to go.

Igor is the real obstacle. He eats when the girls eat, and I’m not about to risk drugging him in front of them. Too many variables—he might order me to swap plates, or let the girls pick from his food as he’s done before. They love the bastard, call him “uncle,” though what they see in him I’ll never know. The way his eyes follow Fallon makes my maternal instincts scream like a wounded animal.

I move back to the kitchen, my mind racing through options. The clock is ticking. Mikhail could return early. A business associate could arrive. The drugged guards could wake up. Every second matters.

My fingers curl around the handle of a frying pan, cool metal against my sweating palm. It’s time for the next phase of the plan. Time to get my daughters out of this hell.

I need a distraction. Something big enough to pull Igor away from the girls without raising his suspicion. The gas stove gleams under the overhead light, four metal burners.

Igor is smart—smarter than the others. He’s been with Mikhail for over a decade, his loyalty cemented. The girls giggle when he brings them little treats and trinkets. It makes me sick. These small kindnesses don’t erase what he is, what he’s done. What he allows to happen.

I grab a heavy cast iron frying pan from the rack, its weight reassuring in my hand. I place it on the largest burner and turn the gas knob all the way up. The sharp hiss fills the kitchen as blue flames leap to life beneath the iron.

My hands move methodically, collecting vegetable oil, paper towels, a dish towel that’s frayed at the edges. All ordinary kitchen items that no one would question me handling. My movements appear to be those of a woman preparing a late lunch.

The oil goes into the pan first—too much of it, far more than any recipe would call for. I let it heat until it shimmers, tiny ripples dancing across its surface. The kitchen fills with the acrid smell of oil approaching its smoke point. I drop the paper towels nearby, positioned just close enough to catch stray droplets or flames. A deliberate accident waiting to happen.

Through the kitchen doorway, I can see the hall leading to the east wing where Igor guards my daughters. I need him here, away from them, fully distracted. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I splash some of the now-sizzling oil over the edge of the pan and onto the open flame.

The reaction is immediate and violent. The oil ignites with a whoosh, flames leaping upward, licking at the wooden cabinets above. I step back, letting more oil slop over the sides of the pan, feeding the growing fire. The heat hits my face in a wave, and for a moment, I’m transfixed by the destruction I’ve created. The flames are beautiful in their ferocity, orange and yellow fingers reaching higher, consuming everything they touch. How I have wished to burn it all down around me over the years and let the flames consume me.

Black smoke billows up, thick and choking. The fire alarm remains silent—Mikhail disabled them months ago when his cigars kept setting them off. Another one of his mistakes that works in my favor today.

I grab the frayed dish towel and toss it onto the counter near the flames. It catches quickly, adding fuel to the blaze. The cabinet doors begin to blacken, the varnish bubbling under the intense heat. Smoke swirls around me, stinging my eyes and scratching at my throat.

I stumble backward, knocking a chair over with a clatter that echoes through the house. Then I scream—not the controlled, calculated sound. The fear in my voice isn’t entirely fake. Fire is unpredictable, dangerous. I’ve set a beast loose in this house, and now I need to get my girls out.

“Fire!” I shriek, my voice cracking. “Help! Fire in the kitchen!”

Heavy footsteps pound down the hallway. Igor appears in the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted against the smoke. His face contorts from annoyance to alarm in the space of a heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” he barks, rushing into the kitchen. His eyes take in the scene—the burning cabinets, the oil fire still raging on the stove, me pressed against the far wall looking terrified. “What did you do?”

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