Ravenous Kingpin (Kingpins of the Syndicate #4)

33. Emory

CHAPTER 33

Emory

A tticus attempted to drag me out while I stared at Killian’s body slumped over the marble, his blood staining it around him. Panic and sorrow I hadn’t felt since losing my daughter tore through my chest. It was so raw, it stole the breath straight from my lungs.

My heartbeats shattered one by one, and with each one the emptiness expanded, the kind that threatened to eat me alive.

Everything had happened too fast. It was too surreal.

For a moment, I thought I had to be dreaming. Maybe it was a nightmare, because life couldn’t be so cruel.

I had started falling for Killian the moment I saw him six years ago. The easy smiles, charming words and deeds were only the beginning that led to so much more. My throat tightened as a tear ran down my cheek, but I barely felt it. And, as my heart ached with every breath, I knew I loved this man. I had never stopped loving him.

“Move it,” Atticus barked and a fresh wave of adrenaline shot through me.

My heart stopped beating for what felt like a lifetime before it roared back to life, and I readied to fight this snake of a man so I could get back to my husband. I struggled against his hold, headbutting him. He fell backwards, his eyes widening in surprise.

I rushed to Killian, falling down to my knees. One of Atticus’s men grabbed a hold of me, while I kicked and screamed, scratched and bit.

One man dragging me turned into two, then three.

Someone fired a bullet.

“Let me go!” I screamed as another gunshot echoed, blood splattering on my face. A few more shots followed.

“Stop shooting, you fucking morons,” Atticus yelled, but I paid no attention. I fought against the hold of the men so I could get back to my husband.

Just as I turned my body, I felt hard metal connect with my head and push me into darkness.

When I woke up next, I was disoriented as an unfamiliar room came into focus. It was clean with a soft clicking sound that pulled my attention to the ceiling. I stared at the sterile off-white shade that reminded me too much of another room I hated to think about.

The fan moved slowly while my heart hammered in my chest, recalling a brand-new nightmare. But unlike the others, this one was of me watching my husband get shot and die in my arms.

It’s just a nightmare , I said to myself as I studied the odd room, refusing to let my mind think back to another time I was locked up. Yet the image of a different room with even colder tiles that I had lived in for months while my father waited for me to give birth flared distantly.

I gave my head a shake. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—go there now.

There were two doors that led somewhere, both wooden and brown, but there was a soft glow coming from behind only one of them.

I pulled my arm up and rubbed the blurriness out of my eyes as images started to pour in at an excessive speed, the memories flooding me. Swallowing down my dry throat, I jolted up, my eyes darting around in panic.

I slid off the bed, my bare feet touching the cold tile.

My eyes traveled down the length of me to find myself still wearing the same clothes, the splatters of blood on it making my chest squeeze in pain.

“Killian.”

His name was barely a whisper on my lips, but before I could wallow in my pain, the door unlocked with a loud click and swung open, light flooding the room and momentarily blinding me.

A woman entered the room with a bottle of water, her face hidden by the shadows until she took a few more steps.

Confusion shot through me as I recognized that face. I’d seen it when we went after Sofia Volkov, only to come face-to-face with Kingston Ashford, Priest, and a woman.

This woman.

“What are you doing here?” I asked in confusion. It was much later that we learned the woman’s real name. Louisa Volkov.

She had silky, golden-blonde hair, a heart-shaped face, and light brown eyes with specs of gold that watched me coldly.

She arched an eyebrow. “Funny, somehow I thought you’d wonder what you were doing here.”

Something was off. This woman’s eyes seemed different, but then it wasn’t as if I had studied the woman during our last encounter. She dropped the bomb, informing Ivy Murphy that Juliette had killed her father, and the Irish mafia princess went ballistic, attacking her best friend.

“Are you playing dumb, Louisa?” I gritted. “This isn’t funny at all.”

Her expression darkened and her eyes turned icy.

“I have no idea who Louisa is.” She strode closer as I studied her. Bizarrely, she wore a business suit with a skirt that hugged her curves. But it was her walk that told me more about her than anything else. It was the kind that told everyone around her she meant business and didn’t take shit from anyone. I knew it well, but I preferred to do it in comfortable pants.

Could this be Louisa’s twin that everyone kept talking about?

And as I let my gaze travel over her, I could tell something was different about her, although I couldn’t pinpoint what. Maybe it was the ice in her expression, and possibly her veins, or maybe it was the way she curved her lips like she’d gladly kill you with a smile.

Of course, I’d done my share of killing, but I’d never done it with a smile.

“Your bullshit aside, welcome to Venezuela.” My breath hitched at her raspy greeting. How in the fuck did I get to Venezuela? She strutted in her five-inch heels like the bitch she clearly was and hopped on the table. “Sleep well?”

Louisa and her twin debate forgotten, I narrowed my eyes on her.

“Where is Atticus?” I snapped, not wasting time. “I’m not in the mood for chitchatting.”

She threw a small bottle beside me, but it crashed on the wall when I refused to move to catch it. And even as it rolled down to my feet and my parched mouth watered, there was no way I’d give this woman the satisfaction of bending to get it.

Judging by the look on her face, I wouldn’t put it past her to kick me while I was down.

“You’re no longer his problem,” she said casually, smoothing down nonexistent wrinkles off her Prada skirt. Wait… Was she missing a pinky finger on her left hand? “You’re mine.”

“The fuck I am,” I muttered, my eyes still locked on her finger. Was this woman tortured? Maybe she had been made into a heartless bitch, her life story similar to mine. Maybe I could appeal to her?—

“It was me,” she said, cutting off my monologue, and my gaze snapped to hers.

“What was?”

She raised her felt hand and waved it, giving me a clear view of her sliced finger. “I sliced my finger. On purpose.”

My mouth parted, but I quickly got myself together. Whatever, if the woman was into some sadistic shit, that was her problem. Not mine. I wanted to get out of here and go back to my husband.

I took a breath, blood rushing to my ears as the pain slashed through my chest. Killian’s dead. There was no going back to him. Now, it was all about finding my—our—daughter.

“What do you want?” I finally asked, squaring my shoulders. “And why did Atticus hand me over to you?”

He was desperate for the name of the Syndicator. I found it hard to believe he’d walk away from it.

“Because I offered up the information you refused him.” When I gave her a confused look, she added, “Jesus, are all women stupid?” I pressed my lips together, swallowing the snappy remark that burned on my tongue. “He no longer needs a name from you.”

“You gave it to him?”

She rolled her eyes, answering in a sarcastic tone. “Well, aren’t you a bright one.”

My hands curled into fists, my nails digging into my palms. This woman clearly had a death wish.

“Well, what is it that you want with me, then?” I asked. “You certainly didn’t take me off his hands from the goodness of your heart.”

Assuming this woman even had a heart.

“I want your liver.” I blinked in shock, sure that I hadn’t heard her right.

“Excuse me, what?”

“I. Want. Your. Liver.” She spoke slowly, like she thought I was too dumb to understand her English and needed to read her lips.

I scoffed. “Well, I hate to disappoint you” —you psycho fucking bitch —“but you’re not getting my liver.”

“I wasn’t really asking.” She chuckled as if amused, then crossed her legs casually. Then she leaned over, putting her elbow on her knee, as if she was deep in thought. “I’m taking it whether you consent to it or not.”

I had entered the twilight zone. That had to be the only plausible explanation for this. I’d been working with the Tijuana cartel to track down my daughter, and now the role had been reversed and I was actually in the organ trafficking ring. This had to be karma at its finest.

“Why do you need my liver?” I asked, keeping my cool, wishing I had a weapon on me or at least my usual gear. Cargo pants and boots. Instead, I was only equipped in leggings and Killian’s dress shirt. But no matter, I had plenty of attitude to make up for my lack of clothing. “Just out of curiosity.”

Not that she would get it.

Something flashed across her expression, making her seem almost human, but she quickly slipped back to her resting bitch face.

“That is none of your business.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you the one who’s been sending me cryptic messages? And shipments of butchered girls through my territory?”

Jesus, if she was anything like Sofia, this wouldn’t end well.

“No, that would be the cartels.” Those fucking scumbags. “Once they learned of your deal with the Tijuana cartel and Atticus, they were eager to jump in and get access to your territory. Of course, they were too dumb and too blind to realize you weren’t really on board with it.”

“Did you work with them too? Why don’t you get a liver from them?”

“I’ll admit to reaching out to the black market to procure a liver, but I don’t work with them and never will,” she said, a dark edge in her voice.

“Then you shouldn’t need mine. In case you missed a biology class, we only need one.”

A cruel twist of her lips and a cunning glint in her eyes told me otherwise. “But see, Emory DiLustro?—”

“Cullen,” I cut her off, raising my left hand and showing her my ring finger. “It’s Emory Cullen now.”

She shrugged. “But see, Emory DiLustro Cullen , I will get your liver. Because you’re the match I’ve been searching for.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t look sick.”

“I never said it was for me,” she said coolly.

Why did she have to speak in riddles? “So who is it for?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Who are you?” I asked, although I was certain I knew. Unfortunately, by the looks of it, I suspected this woman had more of her mother’s traits than her twin. Crazy must run in the family.

“None of your business.”

A man appeared at the door she walked through mere minutes ago and said, “Miss Volkov, the supplier said he only wants?—”

Without a look in his direction, she pulled a pistol from the back of her Prada skirt and… Pop. Pop. Pop.

The gunshots reverberated off the tiles and the walls, ringing in my ears.

A chill passed through me.

She put the gun away without a flicker of emotion, her eyes as cold as ice while I stared at her, averting my gaze from the slumped body on the ground. My mind worked furiously through the recent events that had been unfolding in the underworld, and all my suspicions were confirmed.

I knew exactly who this woman was. Liana Volkov.

And as the knowledge sunk in, a strained silence reigned so loud it was deafening.