20. Chapter 20

twenty

Clara

F uck me.

I nearly swallow the vial under my tongue. Wouldn’t that be a headline?

“Assassin Kills Herself with Her Own Poison, Chokes on Glass at Secret High Society Party.”

But now… I can’t move.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t do anything but stare at the man who haunts my nightmares. The man who destroyed my life.

He cocks his head slightly, eyes raking over me. Down to my tits, my hips, my legs. Back up to meet my gaze. Assessing. Penetrating.

No… this is not happening.

Mr. Big Dick Energy is Leonid Kuznetsov?

Leonid Kuznetsov. The Pakhan of the Bratva. The man I’m supposed to kill tonight.

The stranger from the masquerade club all those years ago. The one who saved my life.

Fuck. This complicates things.

But something feels wrong. The man I remember from fourteen years ago doesn’t seem like the same person standing before me now. There was something different in his eyes back then. – Evil. Pure Evil. But no, that’s impossible. Maybe it’s just the years of trauma clouding my memories. Or maybe I’m trying to rationalize things because this is the Raven. The man who—

I’m piecing it all together when a jerk rams into me, snapping me right out of my thoughts.

“ As-salaam-alaikum – Hello– Mr. Kuznetsov!” A booming voice shatters the moment. I flinch, tearing my eyes away from Kuznetsov.

A man in flowing white robes breezes past, too focused on whatever’s ahead to notice the mere mortal he just bulldozed— yours truly . His mask is a dazzling sunburst of diamonds. He clasps Leonid Kuznetsov’s shoulder, grinning broadly.

Kuznetsov nods in greeting, but his eyes never leave mine. Studying me. Trying to place me.

Does he recognize me? Remember that day, the sex?

But there’s no spark of recognition. No flicker of guilt or remorse. He looks at me like I’m a mildly interesting insect. Something to be studied and then squashed.

Relief floods me, followed by a sickening twist of disappointment.

Thank God for the dim lighting in here. It hides the way my face falls, the relief flooding through me, followed by a sickening twist of disappointment.

He doesn’t remember.

The man who murdered my brother in cold blood, and he doesn’t even fucking remember.

I should be glad. It means my cover is safe. But part of me wants to scream, to claw that mask from his face and make him look, really look at the lives he’s shattered.

And then it hits me, the realization slamming into my gut like a sledgehammer.

This man, this monster… he’s not only my brother’s killer…

He’s Elijah’s father.

The man I’m here to kill, to erase from this earth… he’s the reason my son exists.

I feel sick. Dizzy. The room spins around me as the truth sinks in.

What the fuck do I do now?

My feet move on their own, carrying me away from the horror of it.

This changes everything.

I need to think, to re-strategize.

What a colossal fuck-up.

I shove through the crowd, ignoring the annoyed grunts and curses. Just keep moving.

Suddenly, a hand clamps onto my hip, fingers digging into my flesh. “Where you going in such a hurry, bella signora?”

The voice is heavily accented. I whirl around, ready to introduce his balls to my knee.

And find myself staring at a wall of expensive Italian wool. I crane my neck, taking in the massive man leering down at me. He’s built like a tank, all broad shoulders and beefy arms.

Great. Just what I need: some handsy oligarch looking for a good time.

I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. Sweat beads on my forehead, trickles down my back.

Can’t make a scene.

Can’t risk swallowing the poison.

His other hand drifts lower, squeezing my ass. Rage ignites in my veins, burning through the shock and panic.

Oh, hell no.

Muscle memory kicks in. I grab his wrist, twisting hard as I pivot. A perfect Hapkido lock.

He yelps in surprise, drawing curious stares.

Fucking perfect.

I release him, shoving him back.

Hands to yourself, prick.

I don’t wait for a response. I stalk off, pulse pounding in my ears. Need to get my shit together.

I spare a glance at Kuznetsov’s couch. Empty. Fuck.

I scan the room, trying to spot him. But the crowd’s getting thicker, restless. Looks like the auction is about to start.

The wooden doors from earlier are closed now, flanked by even more goons. Armed to the teeth.

I count at least thirty, maybe forty. Mounds of muscle, no neck. Shit.

I’m debating my next move when I feel it. That prickle on the back of my neck. I’m being watched.

I turn slowly, already knowing what I’ll find.

Yup. The handsy prick from before, pushing through the throng. Heading right for me. And he looks pissed.

Great. Just what I needed.

I weigh my options. Can’t afford another scene. But I’ll be damned if I let this fuck intimidate me.

I spot a dark hallway, probably for staff. I duck into the shadows, finding myself in a private restroom. Mirrors line the walls, top to bottom. The door is a deep, rich red.

There’s a plush velvet sofa off to the side where two women are sitting. They’re draped in designer gowns—Versace, I think. All slinky silk and daring cutouts.

I nod to them as I pass, but they just roll their eyes.

Guess I’m not worth acknowledging.

I slip into one of the stalls and lock the door behind me. Finally, a moment to breathe.

I slide the tray off my shoulder, the leather strap digging into my skin. I set it on the marble countertop, my hands shaking.

Then I sink onto the toilet, head in my hands. I take a deep breath, then another. Trying to calm my racing heart.

The vial is still there, nestled under my tongue. The key to my revenge. But everything’s changed now.

Killing Kuznetsov… It’s not just revenge anymore. It’s patricide. Elijah’s father, dead by my hand.

Bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to scream.

I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want Leonid Kuznetsov dead.

He shattered my world, left me broken. I thought seeing him dying a painful death would make me whole again.

But now… now I don’t know what to do.

Avenge Jake, or spare my son’s father?

Blood or blood?

I close my eyes, pressing my fingers to my temples. Trying to center myself.

Jake’s face fills my mind, his grin bright and mischievous. “Don’t worry, Bug. I’ll always protect you, no matter what.”

The memory shifts, morphs. Suddenly, I’m back in that day, cradling Jake’s broken body. His face is pale, etched with pain and regret.

“Clara, I’m sorry…” He chokes on the words, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. I watch the light fade from his eyes, feel the warmth leach from his skin.

Tears burn behind my lids, scalding and bitter. I let them fall, let myself feel the agony, just for a moment.

I clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my palms, focusing on the sting. The pain is grounding, centering. It reminds me why I’m here.

Flashback, hot and vicious, hits me. Images of that night seared into my brain.

The Ravens, cold and merciless, hunting us through the streets. The crack of gunfire, the screech of tires. The smell of blood and fear.

And Kuznetsov, watching it all with those pitiless eyes.

The curl of his lips as Jake breathed his last.

I shudder, then swallow hard, forcing the memories back into their box.

I can’t fall apart, not now. Not when I’m so close.

The bimbos on the couch are still chattering, their voices shrill with excitement.

“ Bozhe moy , I’ve got invited to Leonid’s after-party!” one of them squeals, her Russian accent so strong it’s almost incomprehensible.

“No way!” the other gasps, her posh British accent dripping with envy. “You jammy cow! What’d you have to do for that golden ticket?”

After-party, huh?

Well, well, well. Looks like Fate’s not done with me yet.

I stand, adjusting my mask.

Fuck it. I’m finishing him up tonight.

I crack the stall door, peeking out. The girls are huddled together, gossiping.

I slip out, scanning the room. No cameras. Perfect. I spit out the poison and tuck it into my bra.

Their voices grate on my last nerve as I cross to the door, trying to ignore their giggles and namedropping.

I grip the handle, pressing until it clicks.

Locked.

Silence behind me. I feel their stares boring into my back.

I turn slowly, meeting their wide, wary eyes.

Just then, static crackles to life beyond the door. A voice pours through, silky and smug.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says the MC.

Perfect timing…

“Showtime, ladies.” I smile.