Page 40 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

T hey think I’m broken.

That just because I’m bloodied and bruised, chained to a rusted-out pipe in some hellhole halfway across the world, I’m finished.

Fools.

I spit blood onto the dirt floor and bare my teeth in a grin that’s more threat than smile.

The copper taste sharpens my fury.

Good. I want them afraid. I want them nervous.

They should be.

“Give us the details of this project!” one of them barks, his accent thick, his trigger finger twitchy. “Who is in charge? Names!”

I lift my head slowly, stare straight into the weasel’s beady little eyes.

“I told you already,” I rasp, voice raw but unyielding. “ I’m in charge. You fucking know it. Now tell me, who is your commanding officer?”

Another one steps forward, bigger, dumber. Tries to play the tough guy.

“You rich bastards think you can walk in here and steal our land. Fucking Volkovs think they own everything. This is our country?—”

“My name isn’t Volkov,” I growl, and the chain clinks as I shift just enough to let them see the fire in my eyes. “It’s Fury. ”

Their flinch is almost imperceptible. But I catch it.

Good.

I lean forward, ignoring the stab of pain in my ribs.

“So unless you want to be wearing your balls as a necklace, get your boss in here. Now.”

They murmur to each other in hushed voices, arguing in their language, deciding whether to test me again.

Let them.

I’m watching. Counting exits. Marking their rotations.

Logging how many times the guy with the limp passes by the rear entrance and how long the outer perimeter is left unguarded while they smoke their shitty black-market cigarettes.

They think I’m just a spoiled Western businessman. A name on a contract.

But I’m not.

I’m a Viper.

And soon, these motherfuckers are going to learn exactly what that means.

Footsteps. Heavier than the others. Purposeful.

The guards snap to attention.

That’s him.

The one they’ve been waiting on. The one they’re afraid of.

I tilt my head up, blood crusted along my jaw, a split forming beneath my eye. I smile anyway. I want this bastard to look at me and know— he’s already dead.

The door swings open, and in walks a man with command written into the set of his shoulders.

Military boots.

Collared shirt half-buttoned.

Scar down one cheek like he earned it ripping out someone’s throat.

He stops three feet from me. Looks down.

“You’re Nico Fury. No, you’re too young?—”

“I believe you know my father.”

My voice is rough. But emotionless.

He crouches. Lights a cigarette. Offers it to me like we’re about to be friends.

I let it sit between us.

Then I spit on the ground beside it.

He chuckles, slow and deep.

“You’re not afraid.”

“I’m pissed off,” I correct him. “And you’re going to be a cautionary tale by the time I’m done.”

His eyes flicker, just for a second.

Good.

He’s not used to threats from men in chains.

But then he leans in.

“You’re out of your territory here, little Prince. No lawyers. No fancy suits. No wife to cry for you. Just me and the dirt. And you bleeding in it.”

I hold his gaze.

Then I grin.

“You really shouldn’t have brought up my wife.”

Because now I’m thinking about her.

Her voice.

Her smile.

Her legs wrapped around me and the soft gasp she makes when I tell her she’s mine.

And when I think about Leanna?

I remember what I have to fight for.

The man leans back. Signals to one of his men.

“Cut his restraints. I want to hear him scream.”

Oh, you’re gonna hear something, asshole.

They move in.

I move faster.

Because they didn’t tie my left hand as tight after yesterday’s beating.

And they never noticed I slipped a nail loose from the board behind me.

Rookie mistake.

I swing.

One down.

My elbow cracks his nose open like a pumpkin.

Blood streams from his face.

He shrieks.

The second guy swings his rifle.

I duck, grab it mid-motion, and shove it straight into the commander's gut, using the stock like a battering ram.

Screams erupt. Chaos floods the room.

I don’t stop moving.

Blood in my mouth.

Rage in my veins.

My body screams from the beatings, but I don’t stop .

Not until the commander is on his knees, breath wheezing, blood soaking the front of his shirt.

In thirty seconds, the balance of power shifts.

There’s shouting outside the tent. Boots. Gunfire.

But I can’t afford to get distracted—not yet.

I grip the pistol I just pulled from a dead man’s hip and aim it at the commander’s skull.

His eyes go wide, and I see it—that moment he realizes he fucked with the wrong man.

“I told you,” I snarl, my voice low and lethal. “I’m not a Volkov. I’m a fucking Viper .”

And just then—just then —the canvas flap flies open, and time stops .

Because standing there, in combat boots, camouflage, and fire in her eyes, is my wife .

Leanna.

Gun up. AK-47 aimed dead center at the bastard in front of me. Her stance tight, focused.

Her golden hair pulled back in a sleek braid.

Sweat gleaming on her temple.

And those big brown eyes? Wide. Wild. Locking onto mine like a homing beacon.

My heart lurches.

No. My soul lurches.

“Leanna,” I whisper—choked. Staggered. “ Princess …”

Behind her, blood-streaked and battle-worn, come our fathers—Adrik Volkov and Nico Fury.

They move like twin tornadoes, rage and dirt and death clinging to their tailored shirts like second skins.

My father’s eyes meet mine.

He takes in my appearance, cataloging my injuries, I’m sure. Then he dips his chin, slow and deliberate.

Adrik does the same, his lips curled into a snarl that promises vengeance.

But all I can see is her .

She came for me .

She fucking came for me .

A shout from the side—one of the remaining men trying to sneak away.

Leanna doesn’t hesitate.

She shifts, pivots, and fires .

One shot.

Center mass.

“ Don’t you fucking move! ” she yells, voice fierce and cracking with emotion.

Jesus Christ.

That’s-that’s hot.

But also terrifying.

She’s shaking.

But she’s steady.

A warrior Princess dressed in tactical gear and wrapped up in wrath.

“You heard her,” I say, moving to her side like I’m being pulled by a force older than time itself.

I take the rifle from her trembling hands, kiss the inside of her wrist, and turn back to the bastard kneeling in front of me.

“Tell your men to stand down,” I growl.

I aim the pistol at his forehead, blood, sweat, and pure fucking rage covering every inch of me.

“Do it,” I insist, “or I will burn this entire fucking jungle to the ground.”

And I will .

Because nobody touches what’s mine and gets away with it.

Nobody tries to steal from me.

And apparently, nobody steals from my wife .

And if they try?

Nobody lives to tell the tale.