Page 86 of Maximum Bet

Helplessly, I scan the room to find another weapon.

Dominic rolls, taking the upper hand; with Anatoliy on the ground beneath him, he’s able to knock the knife away and start throwing punches. Anatoliy reaches blindly to his side, searching for the knife as Dominic’s fists butcher his face. Anatoliy’s eye swells as the sickening crack of his nose breaking makes me want to vomit.

“Cassandra,” Dominic shouts. “Knife!”

The men have shifted, putting Anatoliy only inches from grabbing the weapon. I dive forward just as his fingertips reach the handle and rip it from his grasp.

“Stab him!” Dominic demands as he lands a blow to Anatoliy’s temple.

I swallow hard. I’ve shot a man in self-defense. Stabbing one shouldn’t be any different, but still, the idea of shoving a blade into someone’s flesh sickens me.

“It’s him or us,” Dominic says, grunting when Anatoliy gets a hit in.

I lick my lips and move closer.

We have to fight.

Together.

I lift the weapon as Dominic shifts to the side.

The blade cuts through Anatoliy’s neck like butter. The gurgling noises that bubble from his throat make my stomach churn as he attempts to sit and pulls the knife from his neck.

Blood spurts from the artery I hit, spraying across the bodice of my dress, and then the front of Dominic’s white shirt.

Dominic rips the knife from Anatoliy’s hand, lifts it above his head, and drives it into the man’s heart.

We wait, listening to Anatoliy’s last desperate breaths, before his body sags and the life drains from his eyes.

With a measured breath, Dominic stands and offers his hand, pulling me to my feet.

Placing his arms around my waist, he pulls me close and drops a kiss on my crown.

“We did it,” he says.

I turn in his arm to grin up at him. “Together.”

With the force of a man in love, Dominic grasps my chin and pulls me toward him, crushing his mouth against mine.

He steps back, a smirk gracing his face and a spark in his eyes.

“Welcome to the family, Mrs. Tariello.”

Chapter 31

Dominic

With Cassandra tucked under my arm, I point two members of my cleanup crew toward the carnage that was once Anatoliy Kozlova. With the bastard and the higher-ups in his organization dead, I’ve made a big enough dent in the Kozlova Bratva that I doubt we’ll hear much from them for a few decades, if ever.

The elevator on the top floor dings, and Leo strolls out, followed by my cousin and brother.

“All enemy operatives are accounted for,” Leo says, dropping his phone to his side. “These two”—he indicates to Marco and Nico—“Jonathon, and Victor took down ten guys on their own. In total, we were up against forty-five men. Not a single one is walking out of here tonight.”

The satisfied grin that forms on my face may seem callous to some, but as far as I’m concerned, those fuckwits got what they deserved. My celebratory mood dampens when I see some members of my crew carrying their fallen brothers.

“How many did we lose?” I ask Leo.

His mouth sets in a grim line as he brushes his wayward hair from his forehead. “From our team, eight men gave their lives. Plus, two from Boston and one from Victor’s crew. We have multiple injuries that are being addressed, but nothing life-threatening.”