Page 4 of Our Violent Ends
“Go on,” Juliette said with effort.
She didn’t mean it. She knew Roma Montagov. He thought he wanted her dead, but the fact of the matter was that he never missed, and yet he had—all those bullets, embedded into the walls instead of Juliette’s head. The fact of the matter was that he had his hands around her throat and yet she could still breathe, could still inhale past the rot and the hate that his fingers tried to press into her skin.
Juliette finally reached for her blade. Just as Roma shifted forward, perhaps intent on his kill, her hand closed around the sheath beneath her dress and she pulled the weapon free, slicing down on whatever she came in contact with first. Roma hissed, releasing his hold. It was only a surface cut, but he cradled his arm to his chest, and Juliette followed close, leveling the blade to his throat.
“This is Scarlet territory.” Her words were even, but it took everything in her to keep them that way. “You forget yourself.”
Roma grew still. He stared at her, utterly unreadable as the moment drew long—long enough that Juliette almost thought he would surrender.
Only then Roma leaned into the blade instead, until the metal was pressed right into his neck, one hairsbreadth away from breaking skin and drawing blood.
“Then do it,” Roma hissed. He sounded angry.... He soundedpained. “Kill me.”
Juliette did not move. She must have hesitated for a fraction too long, because Roma’s expression morphed into a sneer.
“Why do you pause?” he taunted.
The taste of blood was still pungent inside her mouth. In a blur, Juliette flipped the blade onto its blunt end and slammed the handle to Roma’s temple. He blinked and dropped like a rock, but Juliette threw the weapon away and lunged to break his fall. As soon as her hands slid around him, she let out a small exhale of relief, stopping Roma just before his head could hit the hard floor.
Juliette sighed. In her arms, he felt so solid, more real than ever. His safety was an abstract concept when he was at a distance, far from the threats that her Scarlets posed to him. But here, with his pulse thudding through his chest and beating an even rhythm onto hers, he was just a boy, just a bloody, beating heart that could be cut out at any moment by any blade sharp enough.
“Why do you pause?”Juliette mimicked bitterly. Softly, she set him down, brushing his mussed hair out of his face. “Because even if you hate me, Roma Montagov, I still love you.”
Two
Roma felt the prodding sensation on his shoulder first. Then the stiffness in his bones. Then the terrible, terrible pain shooting through his head.
“Christ,”he hissed, jerking awake. As soon as his vision cleared, he sighted the black boot responsible for the prodding, attached to the last person he wanted to encounter while slumped on the floor.
“What the hell happened?” Dimitri Voronin demanded, his arms crossed over his chest. Behind him stood three other White Flowers. They were inspecting the storage unit with particular attention, eyeing the bullet holes studded into the walls.
“Juliette Cai happened,” Roma muttered, hobbling to his feet. “She knocked me out.”
“It looks like you’re lucky she didn’t kill you,” Dimitri said. He smacked his hand on the wall, rubbing charred grit and dust onto his palm. Roma didn’t bother saying that all those bullets were his. It was not as if Dimitri were actually here to help. He had probably gathered his reinforcements as soon as he heard about the Grand Theatre rocking with gunshots, frantic to be where the chaos was. Dimitri Voronin had been everywhere these few months, ever since he missed the showdown at the hospital and had to piece together afterward what had gone on between the White Flowers and the Scarlet Gang, like everyone else. Dimitri Voronin would not be left out of the next big showdown. At the sound of any disturbance in the city—no matter how slight—so long as it involved the blood feud, he was now the first on the scene.
“What are you doing here?” Roma asked. He touched his cheek, wincing at the bruising that had spread. “My father sentme.”
“Yes, well, that was not a great decision, was it? We saw the merchant outside having a nice chat with Kathleen Lang.”
Roma bit back his curse. He wanted to spit it to the ground, but Dimitri was watching, so he only turned away, picking up his fallen pistol. “No matter. Tomorrow is a new day. It’s time to go.”
“You will give up like that?”
“This isScarlet—”
A whistle blew outside, echoing up and down the maintenance stairs. This time Roma did curse aloud, tucking his pistol away before the garde municipale barged into the storage unit, their batons out. For whatever reason, the enforcement saw the White Flowers and decided to direct their attention to Dimitri, eyes pinned on his weapons.
“Lâche le pistolet,” the man at the front demanded. His belt glinted, metal handcuffs catching the low light. “Lâche-moi ça et lève les mains.”
Dimitri did not do as he was told, did not drop the gun dangling casually in his grip nor put his hands up. His refusal seemed to be insolence, but Roma knew better. Dimitri did not speak French.
“You don’t control us,” Dimitri snapped in Russian. “So why don’t you go on and—”
“Ça va maintenant,” Roma interrupted. “J’ai entendu une dispute dehors du théâtre. Allez l’investiguer.”
The garde municipale officers narrowed their eyes, unsure if they should follow Roma’s instruction—if there was truly an incident outside to tend to or if Roma was only making up lies. It was indeed a lie, but Roma only had to snap “Go!” again and the garde municipale scattered.
That was who he had worked so hard to turn into. That was who he was doing everything in his power to stay as. Someone who was listened to even when the officers were Scarlets.
