The overhead light blinds me as I blink awake. My shoulders are on fire. I roll them and feel the weight of thick metal cuffs biting into my wrists. Where the fuck am I?
“Ah, he wakes,” says a man with a thick Russian accent.
I squint, attempting to block out the harsh light, and focus on the figure in front of me, but all I can make out is the outline of an average-height man with a wide build and a shaved head.
He sneers. “You have nice sleep, pretty boy?”
Closing my eyes, I tune him out for a few beats while I take an inventory. My ankles are chained to a chair, my arms tied behind my back. Running my tongue around my mouth, I taste blood, but none of my teeth are missing.
A sharp slap across my cheek makes me reopen my eyes. The bald guy pushes his face close to mine, and I grind my teeth and suck in a breath. He’s going to fucking regret that.
“Boss wants him able to talk when he gets here,” another Russian voice grunts to my left, but I keep my focus on the guy in front of me. I don’t recognize him at all, but given the accent, this must have something to do with Pushkin and the Bratva takeover. He appeared to have fled the city with his tail between his legs, but I knew it was only a matter of time before the snake struck back. Although why he’s striking back at us rather than Dmitri, I have no idea.
“He will still be able to talk,” the bald guy says with a sneer. Looking behind me, he nods, and the sound of rustling plastic has me sucking in a deep breath just before a bag is placed over my head and pulled tight. This is a scare tactic, an effective one I’ve used myself many times. But it won’t work on me. They revealed their hand too soon. They need me alive.
So I count and I wait. It calms me, at least until my nervous system takes over. I get to ninety-nine before my lungs start to burn and my body twists and bucks involuntarily as it fights for oxygen. Then comes the lightheadedness. A blinding spark of euphoria before—
The bag is ripped from my head, and I suck in deep lungfuls of air.
“Not so tough now, are you? Vyblyadok!” He snatches the chain around my neck and yanks it off, snapping the delicate gold links and muttering in Russian as he throws it onto the floor at my feet.
That was my girl’s fucking pendant, you motherfucking fuckwit. Rage burns a hole in my chest. Now that he will definitely pay for. Waiting until he edges closer, I lunge forward with my teeth bared and bite down on his nose. He screeches like an angry goat as I use my teeth to grind through flesh and cartilage, making sure to have a good grip before I yank my head back and tear his nose off his face. He staggers backward, blood gushing everywhere, leaking through the hands that cover his deformed mug. I spit the offending lump of flesh onto the floor.
One of his colleagues laughs darkly as he walks over and tends to him. “I warned you not to get too close to the dog.” He calls for help, and a few seconds later, the bald guy is escorted from the room, leaving me with only two of my captors—the one behind me with the bag and a giant with a beard and ponytail who stands in front of me.
“You must be wondering why you’re here,” he says.
I glare at him, wracking my brain to recall any previous encounters. I’ve dealt with a lot of Russians in my time, but this guy doesn’t ring any bells.
“Strong, silent type, huh?” The one behind me lets out a maniacal laugh and slips the bag back over my head. I count out another cycle of ninety-nine before I buck on the chair, and he removes it.
“You know why you’re here?” Ponytail asks, stroking a hand over his beard.
Remaining silent, I stretch my neck until it cracks.
With a sigh, Ponytail shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll talk when the boss gets here.”
Damn right I’ll talk when Pushkin shows up.
The guy behind me leans close to my ear, his breath hot and sour. “You will wish you talk once he gets hold of you.”
Something isn’t right. Pushkin wouldn’t want me tortured for information—he’d want me tortured to send a message.
“You took what was his, Maximo. You touched his girl. Tainted her,” Ponytail says, confirming my thoughts. Definitely not Pushkin, but who?
Fuck! Kristin’s all alone without me. Is she safe? “Where is she?” I say with a snarl, amusing them both.
Ponytail chuckles. “Pushed a button, Maximo?”
“Where the fuck is she? If you’ve hurt her—” The words get stuck in my throat, rage burning through my veins. These must be the men she and her father are running from. Guilt gnaws at my stomach. I promised to protect her. I should have sent her away. Far away from Chicago and from me. But she showed up at my door, alone and helpless and desperate, and even though a part of me wanted to close the door and continue to block out that part of my life, a bigger part of me wanted to save her. She looked so much like our mom, and it made me think of all the ways I failed her as a son. I shouldn’t have pushed her away so hard. Maybe if I’d tried to accept her and Vito …
The bag goes over my head again, and my hands clench into fists, every muscle in my body tense. I don’t count this time. I’m too busy drowning in guilt, anger, and fear. And hope. Hope that my little sister is safe from these monsters.
Darkness encroaches, settling over my brain as my lungs scream for air, and another face appears in my mind.
Joey. This must be what heaven is like—not that I have any chance of a ticket into that place.
I begin struggling, fighting against my restraints at the thought of never seeing her again. Never tasting her. That fate is worse than any hell I can imagine.
