Until the End (25 page)

Calmly, Mishca held his hands up, palms out, trying to get her to focus only on him. Her expression brought a pang to his chest. It wasn’t the  fear—he expected that—but she looked so broken, reminding him why this life was too much for someone like her.

He carefully took a step towards her, touching the top of the gun, lowering it before taking it from her, tucking it into the waistband of his pants.

“Lauren, are you hurt?” He asked.

It took a moment for her to answer, but when she did, she shook her head no.

“Did he r—” the word caught in his throat as his eyes went to her bare legs again.

It was then, he felt it. The rapid flutter of his heart, the way his mouth went dry. He was terrified of her answer and more afraid
for
her.

She understood his question without him having to complete it, relief flooding him when she shook her head again.

Crouching down, he pulled her jeans up. There was nothing he could do about the blood for now. Picking her up, Mishca carried her down the stairs, Luka taking up the rear. It had been a strategic move, not just because they would move faster, but also to shield her view of the other body downstairs.

For once in his life, Luka had nothing smart to say a they got in the car and headed towards the safe house. There was no way for Mishca to get her to his apartment without raising any questions.

It was like she had checked out mentally. Her head rested in his lap, his fingers drifting over her hair. She didn’t speak the entire drive there and if it weren’t for his constant checking, he worried that she had passed out.

At the house, Mishca carried her in the house, directly into his bathroom.

He cut on the shower, trying to get the temperature right. Lauren made a noise that had him spinning around in worry. She was tearing at her clothes, not caring that she was hurting herself in the process.

“Lauren, stop!”

He reached for her hands, but she slapped him away, managing to yank her shirt off. She was crying, mumbling something that sounded like, ‘get it off.’

It wasn’t the clothes she was trying to get off, but the blood coating her skin. Not knowing what else to do, Mishca hooked an arm around her waist, hauling her into the shower with him. His own clothes were soaked through in seconds, but he was too worried about her to give that much thought.

Mishca held her wrists with one hand to keep her immobile, using his other to rub at her skin, showing her as it washed off. “It’s okay,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s over.”

“I-I was looking for my book and I thought you were there…I tried calling but you didn’t answer.” She was looking at him, but he didn’t think she was actually seeing him.

“I didn’t…he was going to…I
had
to shoot him.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he promised, still holding her as the water rained down on them. It was his fault for putting her in harm’s way. “I’m sorry.”

But that would never be enough. She fell silent again, helping him pull off her jeans and undergarments. He was careful with her, washing her off thoroughly without making the act sexual. She didn’t need that right now.

Out again, he dried her off, dressing her in one of his shirts, leaving her on the bed as he went in search of a first aid kit. Finding it beneath the sink, he carried it back into the bedroom.

He carefully wiped her hand down with antiseptic, bandaging it as best he could. Shifting the covers back, he  helped her in, going to change his own clothes before climbing in beside her, pulling her into his side. He rested his chin on top of her wet hair, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

From experience, he knew there was nothing he could say to make her feel better. Only thing he could do at this point was to keep her calm and hopefully she would be willing to talk about it when she was ready.

Several minutes passed as he listened for her breathing to even out. He wished he could read her thoughts, wondering whether or not his presence with her was helping at all. He wished he could do a number of things to make this better for her.

Mishca couldn’t help the pang of anxiety he felt at the thought of losing her all over again. As much as it pained him to admit, this wouldn’t be the last time something like this happened, that would just be wishful thinking, and he loved her too much to lie about the dangers she would face by being with him.

He had been selfish, only caring that she was finally with him instead of heeding his father’s warnings. He had foolishly thought he could protect her from anything, but how could he protect her from himself.

When he finally felt her go lax, he silently slipped out of bed, tucking the covers around her. He had a job to do.

Grabbing a garbage bag from the kitchen, he filled it with his own clothes and began placing hers in there as well. When he tossed her jeans in next, a flash of gold slipped from the pocket. Looking down, he spotted the gold wedding band on a delicate chain.

Brows drawn together, he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. He knew who it belonged to with just a glance.

Mishca watched as Doc stitch up the brigadier’s bullet wound, the ring of his finger curious. He knew what it was of course, but he didn’t understand why Doc wore it. His mother had worn one, but he had never seen Mikhail with one, not even when they were in the privacy of their home.

Once he was finished, Doc clapped the man on the shoulder, giving him instructions on how to properly care for the wound.

Alone with him, Mishca asked, “Why do you wear that?”

Doc looked down to where Mishca was gesturing, holding his hand out to slip the ring off. He was used to Mishca’s questions, attributing it to his unconventional upbringing. Despite only being nine, Mishca was tall for his age and carried himself  like he was far older.

Showing him the ring, he turned it so that he could see the engraving within the interior. “It’s a symbol of my love for my wife.”

“My father doesn’t wear one,” Mishca said reasonably, “but he loved my mother.”

The way his eyes flickered down to the floor for just a moment told Doc that he didn’t necessarily believe that. Sighing, he tried to describe it the best way he knew how.

“I wear it for my family, to show others that I value them.”

Mishca shook his head, turning the ring over and over in his hands. “Families are a weakness. You’re letting your enemies know how to hurt you.”

Doc liked to think he didn’t have enemies, though with the way his life was going now, he wasn’t so sure anymore. “One day, you’re going to fall for a young lady who will make you want to give her the world. You won’t care about the danger that your life may pose because you know you’ll protect her from anything.

“This,” he said slipping the ring back on his finger, “is my way of telling my enemies that yes, I do have a family, but I’ll die before I allow anyone to harm them.”

Mishca frowned. “Hubris, is it not?”

“Not when it’s true.”

Mishca had fucked up. Unlike him, Cameron Thompson had did what he’d said so many years ago. He had given his life for Lauren and the only thing Mishca was doing was putting that sacrifice in danger.

For a while, he leaned against the bathroom counter, staring at it, but the longer he held it, the more resolute about the decision he was about to make.

It was time to end this, once and for all.

He placed the ring on the bedside table, kissing the top of Lauren’s head as he left. Luka was down the hall, flipping the top of his lighter.

“Something you need, Boss?”

“Whatever she needs, get her. If she wakes up, call me immediately.”

Nodding, Luka got that calculating gleam in his eye. “You sure you don’t want me with you?”

“I can handle it.”

“How is she?” Vlad asked as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves, tossing Mishca another pair.

“I don’t know,” Mishca replied honestly. “She hasn’t said much. Once we’re finished here, we’re going to meet with Jetmir.”

Vlad shot him a curious glance, but didn’t question him.

It took a few hours and a couple of calls to get rid of any evidence connecting Lauren to anything at the club. Once the job was done—and double checked by Mishca—Mishca sent his men home.

“Let’s go.”

Mishca and Vlad drove some ways out of town, to a cemetery that was closed to the public at night. Jetmir was waiting, his men with guns at the ready.

He raised a brow when Mishca exited the car, his other brow joining the first as Mishca went to the trunk, opening it.

He gestured at the body. “You sent your hound to my door.”

Gritting his teeth, Jetmir’s hands flexed. “And this is what? A challenge?”

“No, this ends. You want your property, I want you out of New York. Give me three days to either get the diamond for you, or I’ll hand Naomi over myself.”

Jetmir laughed coldly, shaking his head. “This was my suggestion from the beginning. Why accept now?”

Because then, Mishca wasn’t willing to hand Naomi over knowing what the Albanians had planned for her. She might have been a conniving bitch, but no one deserved that fate. But now that Lauren was caught up in this? He would happily hand her over without a single regret.

“My reasoning is none of your concern. Do you agree to this? You don’t send your men with any messages and you do not go near anyone I care about. Understood?”

Jetmir looked like he wanted to argue, but he had the good sense to nod, extending his hand. He might have been relentless in his pursuit of what he’d lost, but he was not blind enough to see that this Russian was a man of his word.

“Same place.” Jetmir barked an order to his men and they came over, removing the body from the trunk.

Mishca didn’t complain, even if they thought to use him as blackmail, there was nothing on the body to connect it with him or Lauren.

Now that he was done with him, Mishca had one more stop to make.

As he stepped into the hotel room, Naomi reached for him, sliding he arms around his shoulders, pressing her breasts against him, her lips to the underside of his jaw.

“I’m glad you came,” she whispered.

Mishca pulled her arms down, setting her away, making a frown appear on her lips.

He stepped past her, seating himself in the armchair away from the window. Before he sat, however, he made a show of withdrawing the gun from the waistband of his trousers, resting it on his knee.

A corner of Naomi’s mouth tipped up as she untied the sashes of her robe, letting the two sides fall open to reveal pale skin, complemented by blue lace.

“Is this the game you want to play?” She asked sweetly as she disposed of the robe, dropping down to her knees to crawl towards him, the sway of her hips almost hypnotizing.

A lesser man might have been tempted by her performance, but Mishca was not an average man.

When she was kneeling between his legs, her hands sliding up his inner thighs, he reached for her then, his fingers closing around her delicate wrists, squeezing enough that she knew he was serious. She gasped in delighted joy for a moment—there were times during their lengthy affair that things got rough between them—but she realized quickly enough that this wasn’t anything like that.

He let her go, just long enough to place the gun on the table beside him, drawing her up to her feet as he stood.

“Choose carefully what you say next,” he said slowly, without an ounce of humor in his voice. “Where. Is. The. Diamond?”

She wrenched free from his hold—only because he let her—now glaring at him as she rubbed her wrists. “I told you. I don’t have it.”

“Naomi—”

“Don’t use that tone with me!” She snapped, sneering, “Is that how you get your way with her? Does she do your bidding like a well-trained whore? Or is it you that does the mewling?” She asked, her entire demeanor changing as she fingered a button on the front of his coat. “Do you have to hide your true nature? Would she run away from the real man lurking behind the surface?”