Page 81 of Bad Medicine

But I refused to bend.

“Never.”

This time, I was expecting the hit, an open-palmed smack across my cheek that split my lip and delivered a burst of copper across my tongue.

“You think you can keep him from me?” Greg yelled, his face reddening as I stood, staring him down again. “Tell me where he is!”

“Never.”

Greg raised his hand to strike me again, but was halted by the ringing of his phone. Not taking his eyes off of me, he pulled it from his pocket and answered with a bark.

“What?” He listened, his teeth bared in a snarl as the voice on the other end of the line told him something he obviously didn’t like. “You’re certain? When?” After listening some more, Greg grumbled something in Russian, then hung up.

Without warning, Greg smashed the picture frame into the wall beside my head, pulling the photo out of the shattered glass and tucking it into the inside pocket of his suit.

I hated the idea of him having even that small piece of Jasper. Even the thought of it made me want to vomit.

“I’m giving you one opportunity to do the right thing, Mia,” he said, running his fingers over the swelling I could feel developing on my cheek. As I watched, he smiled, like he was proud of the mark he had left on me, and my hatred for him burned a little brighter. “Bring me my son, and all will be forgiven.” Placing his hand on my throat, Greg let his fingers tighten; not enough to choke me, but just enough to let me know he could. “Bring me my son, and I just might let you live.”

Releasing me and taking a step back, I could see that he was no longer the polished, composed man who had been sitting on my couch only a few minutes ago.

No, the man who stood before me now was every inch a killer, his shiny veneer fallen away to reveal the decay beneath.

And as I stared back at him, watching as he straightened his jacket and attempted to smooth his hair before storming out my door, I knew that I would kill this man if given the chance.

My life—my oath as a doctor—was to save lives.

But somehow, someday, I would find a way to kill Gregor Belikov, the father of my child and the man who would try take him from me.

Chapter thirty-seven

Rocco

MytiresscreamedasI rounded the corner onto Mia’s street, not caring one bit that it was supposed to be a residential neighborhood; I wasn’t slowing down for nothin’.

Pulling up to the duplex, I exhaled a relieved breath at the sight of the new van parked out front, but my relief was short-lived, because I wasn’t gonna be happy until I had laid eyes on her.

On both of them.

After I had watched Anton get gunned down in the parking lot of his own seedy strip joint, that Ivan asshole had turned his gun on me.

The first shot was wide, but not by much, and as I ducked behind the nearest parked car, I could feel the bullet graze the outside of my arm, a lick of fire that was just close enough to let me know he wouldn’t miss a second time.

“You don’t wanna do this,” I called, pulling out my own gun and sending off an emergency text to the crew. I didn’t know where any of them were right now, but the app Lexi had designed would let them know where to find me. “We got no beef over you taking out the old man.”

I mean, I had a little beef, only because I had gone there in the first place with the intent of ending Anton myself.

I had a spot picked out for his body and everything.

But was I mad about not having to haul two hundred pounds of dead Russian into the desert, stinkin’ up my trunk the whole time?

Not one bit.

“The old man was nothing,” Ivan called, his pride at shooting an unarmed man in the street making me shake my head. “His death was a long time coming. But you? The Chemist would be very glad if I got rid of you, too.”

“Lookin’ to up your Christmas bonus, hey?” I called, rolling to the side and looking under the car, trying to spot Ivan’s feet as he paced across the asphalt. “What do you think my sexy ass would be worth? Ten thousand? Twenty?”

I could see him, standing a few cars over, his ridiculous New Balance shoes making me snort in disgust.