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Everything for Us

Everything for Us (The Bad Boys #3)(48)
Author: M. Leighton

He closes the door and moves to hug me. He gives me a hardy slap on the back and grabs my face in his hands, as many Russians do, and kisses both cheeks, then gives them a slap as well.

“You look good, Nikolai,” Dmitry says, walking to the dresser that he’s using as a minibar. He pours two snifters of vodka and hands one to me. I down it in one gulp.

“Why are you holed up here, Dmitry? What happened?”

Dmitry sighs into his glass, staring into the bottom like he might find answers, before he takes a sip. Before he responds, he walks to the bed and perches on the edge of the mattress. In the sliver of light coming through the small gap in the curtains, I can see him better. And I can see that he doesn’t look good.

Dmitry is tall for a Russian, but not nearly as tall as me. I’d call him stocky. Paired with the tenacious set of his square jaw and his steely blue eyes, he tends to intimidate most people. But I doubt he would today. His shaggy dark-blond-and-gray hair looks like it hasn’t seen a shower in days, and his cheeks have at least three days’ growth on them. But it’s the set of his mouth that tells the tale. It’s grim. And tired.

“Good God, you look like you haven’t slept since I saw you last. What the hell is the matter with you?”

“I know who killed your mother, Nikolai.”

I frown. “So do I. Is that why you brought me here? To tell me who the triggerman was?”

“No. Not only that.” He pauses. It’s dramatic, whether he intends it to be or not. My teeth are on edge until he continues. “I brought you here because I have him. Here. Tied up. Waiting for you.”

My heart thunders against my ribs. Everything in the world disappears but me and the man across from me. And the possibility that seven years’ worth of yearning might culminate right here. Dmitry has delivered to me the only gift men like us can give each other—the satisfaction of revenge. Retribution.

My ears are ringing so loudly I can barely hear my own voice when I ask. “Where?”

“In the next room,” he says, tipping his head to a door on one wall, a door that adjoins the room next door.

I feel like I’m in a daze when I walk to it and push it open. It’s surreal, almost more than my mind can process, when I step through to find Duffy tied to a chair in the center of the room, a gag stuffed in his mouth and a trail of dried blood leading down from his nose.

His eyes meet mine. One is nearly swollen shut. But the other is clear. And in it is resignation. I don’t doubt for a second that a man like him knows that the likelihood of his meeting a bad and untimely end is extremely great. Few men get to see death coming. But this one does. The second I stepped through the door, he had to know that his life is over. Without Cash here to stop me, I can take the revenge I’ve waited seven long years to take.

Cold metal touches the skin of my right palm. I glance back to see Dmitry standing behind me. He’s pressing a silencer into my hand. After all this time, he knows what kind of gun I carry and what kind of suppressor will fit it.

I take it from him and toss it on the floor.

“No. I’m doing this my way.” I bend just enough to reach into my boot and bring out the long, wickedly curved knife that I always keep stashed there. I hold it up and turn the handle just enough that the razor-sharp edge of the blade glints in the low light. “I’m going to slip this between his ribs and push it into his traitor’s heart so I can watch him bleed until there’s no life left in him. I want him to know a small part of the pain I felt when he blew my mother to bits in the marina that day.”

I walk slowly toward him, taking in every detail, savoring every sweet second that leads up to the only thing I’ve thought about for all these years. I had begun to think I’d never have my revenge. But today, I’ll get it. Today, I get to be free of the hatred.

I stop in front of Duffy, my fingers squeezing the knife hilt so tightly my knuckles ache. I look down into his one good eye and I’m confused by what I see there.

It’s peace. This is a man who has come to terms with his life. And with his death. He’s ready for it. Possibly even eager for it.

And that’s when I see her.

Marissa.

She’s not in the room, but she might as well be. Her presence is that tangible. I feel her as though she’s standing right in front of me, touching my face. I can picture her beautiful blue eyes. And the tears that are spilling from them.

I feel the warmth of her fingers grow cold just as the image fades. And just like that, it’s gone. She’s gone.

I find myself at another crossroads, much like the one I felt in New Orleans. On the one side is Marissa. On the other side is . . . everything else.

If I go through with this, there will be no coming back from it. Every man I’ve killed in the last seven years has been out of self-defense. I’ve never taken someone’s life in cold blood.

I’m smart enough to know that this will change me. This will be me turning a corner I can never come back from, making a choice I may or may not be able to live with. It will cement my future in ways that I won’t be able to change, like the fact that I’ll have to leave this country. I’ll be a hunted man for the rest of my days. And I could never invite Marissa into a mess like that.

The Nash who’s standing here right this minute has a few possibilities in front of him. The Nash who puts a knife in the man who murdered his mother won’t. I’ll have one option. To run.

“Nikolai?”

It’s Dmitry, wondering what I’m waiting for. He’s handed me all I’ve ever wanted on a silver platter. And I’m hesitating.

With a pounding pulse, I realize it’s not all I want anymore. I want a life. A real one. With some of the normalcy I haven’t had the luxury of enjoying for the last near-decade. Maybe even a life I can share with someone. Maybe . . .

I don’t want to get ahead of myself. And I don’t want to make any rash decisions. In need of some clarity, I turn away from Duffy and walk back into the other room.

“What’s the matter with you? Isn’t this what you want? Since I’ve known you, it’s all I’ve ever heard you talk about.”

I look at Dmitry, at his troubled blue eyes. Is this what’s bothering him? Was he afraid I’d chicken out? Or was he afraid I wouldn’t?

For the last many years, he’s been like a father to me. He’s protected me as much as he could in the life I was forced to lead and, in some ways, I think I was the family he never got to have. He’s me in another twenty years if I go down this road. But do I want that? Do I want that life? Is the satisfaction of taking the life of the murderer in the next room worth it? Worth becoming a murderer myself?

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