My father’s expression upon seeing me is enraged to the point of madness.
“NIX!” he bellows.
Sloane’s grip tightens on my arm, her fingers digging into my flesh. I’m not trying to break away from her. I’m standing perfectly still.
“Send her over here now, or I’ll put a bullet in this boy’s head,” my father snarls.
“I would,” Sloane sneers back at him, “but I don’t exactly trust you.”
I can hear Ivan, Rafe, and the others coming up behind us.
Likewise, a half-dozen of my father’s men have made it out of the collapsing tunnels. Some are limping, some are coughing, all are covered in bits of blasted rock, dust, and blood.
Our two groups face each other, each with a hostage.
My father is staring at me like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His fingers twitch on the gun, his body tense as he fights the impulse to shoot Kade or fling him aside, to run at me.
“What are you doing here, Nix?” he says, hoarsely.
“What are you doing, Dad?” I reply, my voice cracking. “What is this place?”
He shifts his bulk, his right eyelid twitching as it always does when he’s stressed or angry.
“You know the mine,” he says, gruffly. “I told you about this.”
“No,” I say, flatly. “No, you didn’t.”
“Well what does it matter!” he shouts. “I was going to show you. This is all for you someday.”
The thought of owning this dark underground place, those prison cells, makes my skin crawl.
“I don’t want this,” I say.
“What the hell are you talking about!” my father roars.
His whole hand is shaking now, the barrel of the gun jittering against Kade’s ear. Kade’s skin shines like wax.
“Don’t hurt him,” I say, nodding toward Kade. “Let him go. He’s my friend.”
“He’s your friend?” my father howls, outraged. “Have you lost your mind? These are your worst fucking enemies, Nix! That’s Ivan Petrov! It’s his fault your mother is dead! His fault she was never avenged!”
“You had your revenge,” Ivan says, his voice colder than frost and harder than steel. “We killed Taras together. Then you tracked down his wife and children and you slaughtered them, too. You killed his uncles and his cousins. There’s barely a Banderovtsy left alive.”
“AND IT STILL WON’T BRING HER BACK!” my father bellows, his face redder than his beard.
My stomach is churning.
We killed Taras together . . .
Then you slaughtered his wife . . . and his children . . .
That wasn’t part of the story, when my father told me how he tracked down the man who killed my mother, battled him hand-to-hand, then cut his throat and let him bleed out on the floor.
There was no Ivan Petrov in that tale.
I never heard the Petrov name before I came to Kingmakers.
And there was certainly no mention of murdering children.
Obfuscations, elisions, deceit, and lies . . .
Every moment that I look at my father’s face, he becomes less familiar to me, less the man I thought I knew. I begin to see the monster he is to everyone else . . .
“You lied to me about Kyrylo Lomachenko, too,” I say. “You killed him. I know you did.”
My father’s breath is coming through his teeth in hissing gasps.
“Who are you to judge how I do business,” he seethes.
“Let go of Kade,” I say, again. “This is over.”
“It will never be over,” he replies, his eyes slipping away from my face, fixing on Ivan Petrov instead.
“Do you want your daughter back or not?” Sloane snaps. “Put that fucking gun down.”
My father’s eyes dart from Ivan to me, and back again.
He snarls, “Bring her to me.”
Then, he tosses his Glock to one of his soldiers, and drags Kade to the center of the chamber, standing directly over the grate.
“I’ll take her,” Rafe says, quietly.
He passes his own rifle to Sloane, so he’s unarmed except for the knife at his belt, just like my father.
Sloane opens her mouth to argue, but Rafe cuts across her, repeating sharply, “I’ll do it.”
He takes my arm. His hand is warm and steady.
Rafe walks me toward my father, the opposite of a bride being given away on her wedding day.
When we stand before him, my father at last releases Kade. Kade stumbles back toward his brother. Adrik grips his rifle, obviously struggling with the impulse not to open fire as soon as Kade is out of the way.
I’m supposed to cross to the other side like Kade did.
I’m supposed to join my own family.
But all I can think of is Sabrina’s words, echoing in my head:
Are you sure what side you want to be on?
My father or Rafe?
The Petrovs or the Malina?
Rafe looks at me. His eyes are as clear and blue as I’ve ever seen them—a reminder of sea and sky in this sunless place. He relaxes his grip so my forearm slides through his fingers, until my hand is resting on his palm.
We gaze into each other’s eyes. There’s no lying when you speak without words.
I turn my hand, linking my fingers through his.
Then I say to my father, “I’m not coming home with you.”
He looks at my hand, holding tight to Rafe’s.
“What are you doing?” he rasps.
“I’m going back to Kingmakers. I’m staying with Rafe.”
My father isn’t shaking anymore. He’s gone deathly still.
“You choose him over me,” he says. “This boy over your own father.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
Rafe’s hand tightens in mine.
I know for certain he’s not letting go—no matter what happens.
My father’s men grip their rifles. The Petrovs do the same. The Malina are outnumbered, fourteen to seven. They don’t want to fight. Still, they’ll obey my father to the end.
The Petrovs are longing to kill every last one of them, especially my dad. And maybe he deserves to die. But I’m hoping this one time, we can all walk away.
“It’s over,” I say to my father.
I turn away from him, back toward my friends, back toward the Petrovs, and most of all toward Rafe.
Nothing happens for the space of a heartbeat.
Then my father gives a strangled howl. He rips the knife from his belt, swinging it down.
I turn in slow motion, the arc of my spin intersecting with the trajectory of my father’s knife—the blade plunging directly toward my heart.
Until Rafe lunges between us, turning his shoulder into the knife.
The blade sinks into his flesh. It cuts deep, all the way to the hilt.
Rafe doesn’t even seem to feel it. He’s already pulling his own knife from his belt. He swings it upward, faster than a whip, slashing directly across my father’s throat.
My father gasps.
Before he can move, before he can even begin to bleed, Rafe slashes him again and again and again, cutting him across the belly, through the groin, and backward across his neck, cutting him to pieces like a carcass in a butcher shop.
The cuts are strategic, merciless, and utterly devastating.
There’s no hesitation in Rafe’s face. No regret. I see the man I’ve caught glimpses of before. I see Rafe Petrov unleashed.