Emilio grinds his teeth, annoyance flittering across his features.
“Artem, I’d advise you to shut your bitch up before—”
What?
What the heck just happened?
The speed with which Artem moves is truly terrifying.
It’s like watching a predator in the Savannah, the power of nature in his muscles, the intent of a hunter as he speeds across the road and hammers Emilio across the side of the face.
I gasp, my hands going to my mouth, as I half-watch the mayhem but also try to creep around the edge and get to Rocky. Rocky’s straining at his rope now, trying to break free so that he can help Artem.
Emilio falls to the ground, landing with a thump and a high-pitched squealing noise, the sort of noise that makes it difficult for me to believe that I was ever scared of this man.
Immediately, Emilio’s men surge toward Artem, but either they remember his warning about guns or they’re too caught up in the moment to go for them.
All of the Mafiosi are muscular, over-inflated in their suits, the sort of men who, when I look at them, my mind bring up images of needles and steroids and under-the-counter enhancements. Their bodies bulge unnaturally, and yet that doesn’t matter, does it, if there’s seven of them and only one of Artem?
Stay calm, stay calm.
I creep towards Rocky as the men all bulrush Artem, leaping on him and smothering him under their combined weight and pressure.
It’s impossible to make out any individual movements in the darkened fray, just the mad thrashing of limbs as though the street has become water and they’re all drowning.
But then I peer closer and see that Artem is the only one not drowning, the only one in control.
He ducks and slides away from punches, his expression intent as he counters with quick strikes of his own, always moving so that the Mafiosis’ punches swipe through empty air—and then he’s there, hitting them and ducking away so they can’t hit him, a bear crossed with a jaguar, a hunter, a million cuts above these men.
I kneel down next to Rocky and take off his muzzle, his barks rising into the air as I run one hand over his body to calm him and start whispering soothing words. I don’t take off the rope yet, though, because I don’t want him to charge into the mayhem and get himself hurt.
Artem swings with big bear swipes now, his fist hitting chests and necks and cheeks, causing the men to reel back or collapse into the ground.
And then they’re all lying around him like scattered bowling pins, except bowling pins don’t groan and clutch their injuries.
Artem walks over to Emilio, who’s rolling onto his back and clawing at his jacket, clearing going for his gun.
Artem lays his shoe on Emilio’s chest, his face twisted in rage, his eyes flaming. I keep one hand on Rocky’s body and smooth the back of his neck with the other, his favorite place for being stroked, whispering words of comfort that I barely hear myself.
“Tell my queen that you’re sorry, Emilio,” Artem snarls. “Beg for her forgiveness. Otherwise, instead of spending the rest of your worthless life in a maximum-security prison, I’ll put a bullet in your head with your own gun.”
“You really think you can put me in prison?” Emilio wheezes, squeezing uselessly onto Artem’s ankle, trying to dislodge his foot.
“I know I can,” Artem growls. “I’ve got all the dirt on you I need, motherfucker. Now apologize.”
Artem leans his weight on Emilio’s chest and he starts to gasp and wheeze, and then he lets his head fall and his gaze finds mine, this man who kidnapped me and tried to use me as a pawn in some twisted game.
“I’m sorry,” he cries. “Christ, I’m so sorry. Okay? Please. Please.”
I untie the rope from the streetlamp and pick Rocky up, laughing when he licks my face, feeling powerful as I carry him over to Emilio and stand tall.
I feel like a queen.
No, fuck that.
I am a fucking queen.
Queen of the Bratva.
From slave to queen.
“Apologize to Rocky,” I tell him, my voice ice, my gaze even colder.
“S-sorry, boy,” Emilio wheezes, Artem crushing his shoe even harder into his chest.
“Good,” Artem sighs, taking out his cellphone. He holds it to his ear after pressing a few buttons. “Call our contacts in the department. I want Emilio off the streets. I’ve got him right here. Send some men out to make sure he doesn’t scurry off anywhere like the fucking rodent he is.”
Artem looks at me and, amidst all the mayhem, we share a look.
With seven injured men lying busted and groaning all over the road, with the light of the malformed street lamps casting shadowy illumination over us, he looks into my eyes and I look into his.
I can read the message in his face.