Twelve
Cammie
It happened in a flash.
One second Father had his hand on mine, his fingers digging into my wrist like he could shatter the bones with his hold alone, and the next, his head was a bloodied mass and Svetlana was screaming like she was a banshee on Red Bull.
It was her screams that brought me back to life. That robbed me of the daze that had seen me slam a glass ornament into my father’s skull so many times that—
I peered down at myself, saw the blood and matter, tiny pieces of brain and God knew what else, coating my Chanel dress. My mouth widened in a scream, I could feel the noise building up in my lungs, just waiting for me to erupt, only, I never did.
A soft popping sound caught my attention, and I knew what it was. Even though I was only a daughter of the Bratva, not a soldier, I knew that sound.
We all did.
When I stared over at Maxim, I almost expected the gun to be aimed at me. But it wasn’t. Smoke curled about the gun’s muzzle, and as I watched, his hand lowered, before the gun returned to the inside pocket of his expensive suit. Within seconds, a cellphone was in his hand, and dazedly, I let my glance drift from him to Svetlana.
To a sight I prepared myself to behold.
Her face was, quite frankly, gone.
Vomit bubbled up my gullet and the need to puke was a strong one. To let it out. To let everything out. But I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
I’d just killed my father.
And Maxim, his loyal soldier, had killed my stepmother.
Not me.
I’d been raised in a violent world, one where I knew that my death would be the prayer on someone’s lips, where my end could be abrupt and painful and out of the blue.
But Mama had been left like a broken doll, and these two weren’t.
They’d been butchered in violence.
A violence spawned by me.
I raised my hand to my mouth to stem the flood of tears that longed to break through, but as I did, the scent of iron on my lips had me juddering in reaction, my hands dropping to my sides, fingers trembling as I evaded their slickness. A slickness that had nothing to do with the cuts on my palms, but my father’s.
I’d killed him.
I’d fucking killed him.
My knees caved in, any starch in them disappearing as my brain tried to come to terms with what my hands, my body,my hearthad done.
As I stared at the grim pitting on his skull, as I stared at the mush of flesh that was the remainder of a man I’d loved at one point in my life, I knew this was it.
The day I’d die too.
“He’s dead.”
Maxim’s voice was clear, loud, even, in the room.
I flinched with both words, especially as they were spoken in English and not Russian.
As I watched droplets of blood course over my father’s face, like some kind of carved fruit decoration to celebrate Halloween, I heard him rumble, “I’ll get her out of here. You’ll have to be fast. I’m going to have to spin this.” Then: “No, she’s dead too.” He grunted. “I’ll expect more than just a favor when it comes down to it. Alliances were forged, but they can be forgotten over time, O’Donnelly.”