Page 30 of Bound Wings
I'm consumed by darkness now.
Pounding starts against the reinforced door, and my heart drops straight through the floor. I shove Nataly behind me andraise the gun with both hands like I have any idea what I'm doing with it.
Sonya's already up from the floor, weapon trained on the door.
"Sonya! Open the door—it's me!"
Slava.
MySlava.
Sonya has the door open in under two seconds, and his eyes tear across the room in a wild sweep until they land on me. I watch his knees actually buckle, but he catches himself against the doorframe, and then he's across the room and hauling me against his chest.
"You're okay. You're okay." His hands run over my arms, my shoulders, my face, checking for wounds.
The other women filter out around us, one at a time, heading off to check on the state of the estate, on husbands and brothers and sons still unaccounted for.
"You're bleeding," I whisper, my thumb brushing dried blood off the shell of his ear.
"Nothing but a scratch, my little butterfly." He kisses me, and I kiss him back with the same reverence.
"Is it done?" I ask against his mouth.
"Mostly." His forehead drops to mine.
We stay like that for a long moment, foreheads together.
"I choose you, Slava."
"Oh, thank fuck," he breathes out, and then his mouth is everywhere—my hand, my eyes, my nose, my mouth again, anywhere he can reach. "Because you've always been my choice. From the second I saw you. I love you more than should be humanly possible, Nora."
"I love you too."
Epilogue
Nora
I'd be lying if I said I've gotten used to every single flavor of darkness this Bratva has to offer.
For example—a week after that ambush, the backyard of the estate had severed heads hung up like Christmas ornaments. Colored lights were strung between them, tinsel draped over the fence posts. Dead center of the display sat Spada's head, the man who started the whole thing in the first place.
The Bratva lost twenty-five men that day. Dozens more spent weeks in the infirmary. But justice, in whatever twisted shape it takes in this world, was served.
Thankfully, turns out mafia wars are rare and few and far between.
I'd also be lying if I said I didn't eventually settle into that darkness. Get used to it. Contribute to it, even, in my own small ways, here and there. It's been five years since that day.
"Open your mouth, Ada, love." Seeing her this frail in the bed feels like a knife straight through the center of my chest every single time. "Please? For me?" I pull out my best pleading eyes, and she just shuts hers instead, refusing to look at me at all.
Cheater.
Fine. If we're playing dirty, I'm bringing out the big guns.
"Ada, you're upsetting the baby," I say, flat, deadpan, and her eyes fly open wide as saucers.
"That is not acceptable," she mutters, finally parting her lips for the spoon. The tumor's made eating hard for her these last few months, and surgery at her age is risky, according to every doctor we've dragged through this room. So it's chemo, rest, and prayers.
"Do you think I'll get to change his diapers too?" Ada asks between bites, one hand drifting to rest against my belly.
