Page 58 of Kneeling for Daddy
I sip my tea and curl my fingers tighter around the warmth of the mug. It’s not really comforting, but it’s something to hold on to. “At least we have each other.”
Madison leans her head against my shoulder in silent agreement. Eavan tucks her legs under herself, the three of us bound by the same gnawing fear and the strange solace of not having to face it alone. These women have become my family.
And as the night stretches on, we sit together in the dim glow of Eavan’s living room, waiting, hoping, and pretending for just a little while that we aren’t terrified of what the dawn might bring.
The drive upstate has been quiet; the hum of the tires on the blacktop and the occasional groan from Emin in the backseat are the only sounds in the SUV. Emin’s wrists are zip-tied, his body battered from hours of “persuasion.” He slouches against the seat like he is trying to melt into it, but there is nowhere left for him to run. He is ours, and he knows it.
Following Emin’s directions, we pull to a stop at the end of a long, dirt road. The cabin sits at the end of it, swallowed by trees. It looks abandoned. The windows are dark, and there is no movement beyond them. If it weren’t for the Suburban parked beside it, I would think that Emin was pulling our legs with his intel and leading us into an ambush.
“All right,” Alek gruffs, his eyes dark as he stares at the cabin. “Time to earn your keep, Emin.”
“How many men?” I demandingly ask.
“Just Vartan,” Emin answers quickly.
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” I stomp on his foot, a pained scream tearing from him as I grind my heel over his missing toes.
“I’m not,” he cries. “He’s here alone… Doesn’t trust anyone not to turn on him…”
Cillian yanks him from the car, holding the back of his shirt as the five of us make our way down the road to the cabin. Emin’s wounds make the trek difficult, and the short walk takes far longer than it should with him dragging his mangled foot behind him. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Cillian gruffly whispers, marching him onto the porch. The boards creak under our boots as we crowd close. Emin is shaking so badly it rattles his teeth as he raises his hand to knock on the cabin door.
“Who is it?” a thick accented voice asks from the other side.
“Emin, sir.”
There is a shuffle inside, then the scrape of furniture sliding from barricading the door. It cracks open, a chain still hooked across the gap. A pair of eyes flicks over Emin, then darts to the four of us behind him. Suspicion flashes in his eyes. “What the fu?—”
I don’t give him the chance to make a move, firing one shot through the gap, clean to the head. He drops to the floor as Emin stumbles back against Alek, trying—but failing—to flee.
“Alone, my ass,” Alek huffs, shoving him forward, using him as nothing more than a battering ram to push through the door. We shove inside behind him, guns drawn and ready to be greeted by more men. Alek fires a bullet into Emin for betraying what little trust we had in him.
The single room of the cabin is dim, lit only by a lamp beside him, the surface around it crowded with empty bottles. And there he is.Vartan. He is older than I expected, and grayer too. But his eyes, those are sharp and calculating. He’s leaning back in a chair like he’s been expecting us all along, pistol resting just beyond his grasp on the table. Succumbed to his fate, he doesn’t bother reaching for it.
“You finally made it,” he says, voice gravelly and calm. He glances at Emin, then back to us. “I should’ve known that weak piece of shit would break.”
We spread out, boxing Vartan in. Alek moves first, revenge flashing in his eyes as he shoves the barrel of his gun against Vartan’s temple. “Who else?” His voice is sharp, teeth bared. “Who else is in on this?”
Vartan only smirks. “You think cutting off my head stops the body from moving?” His gaze flicks between us. “You can kill me. It won’t stop. The Armenians will never all bow to The Kings.”
Alek presses harder, his voice low and lethal. “No. Butyou’llbe dead.”
I step forward, crouching enough that my eyes meet Vartan’s. “And any fucker stupid enough to follow in your footsteps?” My smile is thin and sharp. “They’ll join you.”
Vartan’s smug look falters just slightly, and that’s all I need. My fist slams into his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He spits blood, laughing through the pain.
So we make him laugh less. The hours blur into a symphony of screams and breaking bones. We take turns—blows, cuts, burns—chipping away at him until even his arrogance starts to crack.He doesn’t beg, not the way some men do. But by the time Alek carves deep into Vartan’s thigh, he’s groaning like a dying animal, sweat pouring down his gray temples.
Cillian crouches in front of him, knife dripping. “Where’s your empire now, old man?”
Vartan spits blood at his boots. “Bigger than you’ll ever?—”
Cillian buries the knife into his gut, slow and deliberate. Vartan’s howl shakes the walls.
Alek leans close, whispering in his ear, “Brighton belongs to The Kings.”
I raise my gun, and the sound of his ragged breathing fills the silence. His eyes lock on mine, defiance flares one last time. I don’t give him the satisfaction of any more words. One clean shot through the head ends him.
The room goes quiet except for the rasp of our own breathing and Emin’s muffled sobs from the corner. He thought we’d spare him. That’s the problem with rats—they believe turning on their master buys them freedom. But freedom was never on the table. Emin kicks, screams, and pleads for his life. His voice cracks, promising he will be useful or that he will disappear. My knife slices across his throat, silencing him permanently as his blood sprays across the cabin.
