Page 78 of Sin Wager
Another blow follows, this one delivered with a closed fist that sends Vera staggering against the leather seating. Blood trickles from her split lip, and I see her protective hand move instinctively toward her belly where our child grows. The gesture ignites something primal in my chest, a fury that threatens to overwhelm the tactical thinking that keeps us both alive. If it were up to me, I'd shoot Sonya now, but Vera wants to handle this her way.
"Stop it," Vera sobs, her voice breaking as Sonya advances for another strike. "I did what you asked because I needed that money for Elvin."
"Bitch!" Sonya grabs a fistful of Vera's hair, jerking her head back to expose her throat. "I could cut your throat right here," Sonya whispers. "Let you bleed out on this expensive carpet while your lover watches. But that would be too quick, too merciful for a traitor."
Vera whimpers and her eyes find mine across the room, wide with terror and something else. Trust. Despite everything, she trusts me now that there is no talking to these people. I have to take charge or Sonya will do the very thing she threatens to do.
That trust breaks the last restraint on my anger, replaced by something more ancient and infinitely more dangerous. The protective instinct that turns civilized men into killers when their families are threatened.
I move without conscious decision, my body flowing into action while my conscious mind still processes the threat. The Makarov raises as muscle memory takes control of fine motor functions. The first shot takes the left gunman in the chest, the bullet punching through his sternum and into the vital organs beyond. He drops without a sound, his weapon clattering across the floor as his nervous system shuts down.
The second gunman reacts faster than his dead partner, his pistol swinging toward me as his finger tightens on the trigger. But speed without accuracy is worthless in close-quarters combat. His shot goes wide, shattering the luxury box's wet bar in an explosion of glass and expensive liquor.
My second and third rounds catch him center mass, the double tap dropping him beside his companion in a spreading pool of blood that soaks into the carpet's expensive fibers. The smell of gun powder mixes with the metallic scent of spilledblood and the chemical tang of cleaning products from the destroyed bar.
Sonya releases Vera and spins toward me, a knife now clutched in her hand as she realizes her protection has been eliminated. But panic destroys her coordination, and she stumbles backward over one of the fallen gunmen. Her feet tangle in his outstretched legs, sending her crashing into the seating area.
The knife flies from her grasp as she hits the floor, skittering away across the blood-slick surface. She scrambles after it on hands and knees, desperation making her movements clumsy and predictable. I could kill her now with a single shot, but something holds me back. Perhaps the need to see her completely defeated, to watch her realize that all her schemes and manipulations have led to this moment of absolute failure.
Vera runs to me, her arms wrapping around my waist as she presses her face against my chest. I can feel her tears soaking through my shirt, and the trembling in her body speaks of shock and relief in equal measure. My free hand finds her hair, stroking the tangled strands while I keep my gun trained on Sonya's prone form.
"It's over," I murmur against the top of Vera's head. "She can't hurt you anymore."
Sonya struggles to her feet, blood running from a cut on her forehead where she struck the edge of a chair during her fall. Her carefully styled hair now hangs in disheveled strands around her face. The professional façade has crumbled completely, revealing the desperate criminal beneath.
"You think this ends anything?" she spits, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. "You have no idea what you've started. The Radich family doesn't forget slights like this."
"The Radich family is finished," I reply calmly. "Your operation is blown, your men are dead or captured, and your money is in our hands. You're the last loose thread."
"There are others. More crews, bigger operations. You've won nothing but a temporary victory."
"Maybe. But you won't be alive to see what comes next."
Sonya's eyes dart toward the knife lying near the destroyed bar, but she's too far away to reach it before I can put a bullet in her spine. Her shoulders sag as she realizes the futility of resistance, and when she looks back at me, I see something unexpected in her expression. Not defiance or anger, but a strange kind of relief.
"Just do it, then," she says quietly. "Kill me quickly. I've seen what your family does to people who cross them. I'd rather take a bullet than spend days screaming in some warehouse basement."
The request surprises me. I expected begging, threats, perhaps an attempt at negotiation. But this calm acceptance of death speaks to a pragmatism I can respect, even in an enemy. Sonya Radich may be a manipulative predator, but she understands the rules of the world we inhabit.
"Any last words?" I ask, more out of curiosity than courtesy.
She looks at Vera, still pressed against my chest, and something almost resembling regret crosses her features. "I'm sorry about your brother. I used your love against you, and that was beneath even my standards."
Vera lifts her head to stare at the woman who controlled her life for months. "Why did you tell me that?"
"Because I'm about to die, and confession is supposed to be good for the soul." Her smirk only angers me more. "Though I doubt my soul is salvageable at this point."
"It isn't," I agree, and I pull the trigger.
The bullet takes her in the center of the forehead, snapping her head back as the kinetic energy transfers through bone and brain tissue. She collapses backward onto the blood-soaked carpet, her body settling into the stillness that only comes with death. The luxury box falls quiet except for the distant sounds of emergency responders working on the floors below.
Vera turns her face back into my chest, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs of relief and emotional exhaustion. I hold her tighter, feeling the precious warmth of her body against mine and the subtle reminder of our child in her belly. We survived. All three of us survived.
"Come on," I say gently, guiding her toward the door. "Let's get out of here. Rolan is waiting for us."
We leave the luxury box behind, stepping over the bodies and through the blood to emerge into the corridor where police tape and evidence markers create a maze of official attention. The premium level has been evacuated except for law enforcement personnel, and their presence requires careful navigation to avoid uncomfortable questions about our involvement in the recent violence.
Rolan's men on the inside will clean this up for us, but I don’t envy them the task. When we reach the parking lot, it's empty now, the track entirely cleared for the day. It will likely be shut down for a few weeks while they investigate and clean up. The authorities let us pass by unquestioned, something set up by my nephew, no doubt.
