Page 12 of Freeing Denver
Alistair takes his glasses off. “And how do you?—”
“I killed him. Stabbed him twice with sharpened hairpins, then slit his throat with them. He died on his bedroom floor,” I say matter-of-factly. Helena’s hand hovers by her mouth. “He was the one who planted the bombs.”
Alistair looks beyond furious, his jaw tight, shoulders tense as he stares at me.
“So you decided to start a war?”
“There won’t be a war. Dante Capelli is taking the lead. I have his word?—”
“His word?” Alistair shouts, standing. “You cannot kill the head of a fucking family without consulting me!”
“And yet, I did.” He opens his mouth, and I raise my hand to silence him. “I had evidence. If I’d told you, you’d want to go about it with plans and procedures and whatever shit you think matters. I dealt with it.”
Alistair’s fist comes down onto the desk, the impact knocking a pot of pens over.
“You’re a fucking amateur,” he snaps. “You really think Dante Capelli will do as you say?”
“Vince killed his grandfather,” I add, my own anger threatening to breach the surface of my skin. “Dante had a vested interest in him dying. And even if I’d had to fight Dante and every Capelli, I was always going to kill the man who took Finn from us. Who could take Ronan and Colt, too.”
Alistair shakes his head, but Helena comes to me and kisses my cheek. She doesn’t need to thank me, it’s written all over her face, and she squeezes my hand as she leaves the room, Lewis following.
Alistair continues to rage. “Colt wouldn’t?—”
I stride toward the desk. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me what Colt would or wouldn’t want when he’s in a hospital bed on a fucking ventilator. Don’t you dare use him against me, Alistair.”
“He wouldn’t want this!” he roars. “You’re causing more fucking mess!”
“I’m doing what you’re too afraid to do,” I hit back. “I made a stand. I did something. I didn’t sit behind a computer and pretend I had control. I got control. I fuckingstolecontrol.”
He comes around the desk. “You’re a brat. A selfish little girl who lashed out when you should have used your brain.”
“And yet, I did what you couldn’t. And isn’t that what bugs you the most? I pulled the trigger. You couldn’t even load the gun.”
Alistair is about to unleash hell—I can tell. His cheeks are flush, eyes wild with rage, but I’m ready for it. After days of pain, of burying everything, I’m aching for him to scream so I can scream right back.
A knock on the door stalls his words.
He’s glaring at me, jaw tight, and my heart is hammering when I hear the door to the safe house open. And a familiar voice.
A voice that can’t belong to who I think it does.
Alistair forgotten, I pull open the office door and stride into the hall.
The man in the doorway stares at me. A man, not a boy. Not the person I last held a year ago. A brother, a friend, who killed for me.
“Axel?” I whisper.
He’s tanned, his hair a little longer, and he has a short beard. He looks so much like Ranger, but his muscle is lean, and his expression isn’t hard. He looks bashful, almost shy, as Helena invites him in.
I can’t move, but I don’t have to, because Axel closes the space between us and pulls me into a hug. He buries his face in my shoulder, and I burst into tears. Sobs rack my body as I hold him, cradling the back of his head, letting this moment sink in.
He’s home.
And my God, he’s strong.
I wince and he pulls back, his dark eyes wide. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Nodding, I cup his face, my cheeks damp with tears. “I’m fine. Look at you.” I scratch his beard. “You’re a grown-up.”
