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I sigh, then let go of the button. Turning to a cabinet on the wall, I take down a leather satchel, leave the room, and push open the interrogation door.
Walking to the second, smaller table in the corner, I open the satchel. Tools glint up at me—the tools of the Bratva trade. Glancing over my shoulder, I tell him, “That’s an interesting thing you just said … about pretending.”
“You don’t scare me,” Yevgeny spits. “You’re thespare.”
“Yes, you’re right. The heir and the spare, that’s us. Yet you seem to forget something. What is a spare for? What’s the purpose ofhaving a spare?” Picking up a long, thin, extremely sharp knife, I turn and stare down at Yevgeny, sweaty and terrified, with his hands bound. “A spare exists to replace the first choice. A spare still has to be as brutal as the heir.”
I take another step closer. Now, he can’t hide his fear. He pisses himself, shuddering all over.
Kneeling, I bring the knife to his throat, holding it there, drawing no blood … yet. “You’ve made a grave mistake. YouassaultedMila. Do you understand, Yevgeny?”
He looks at me, his eyes getting wide. “I-I think so.”
“Tell me what you understand.”
He licks his lips, struggling to speak. I can see the realization slowly filtering through his system. “There’s been talk about you and Mila spending time together.”
“Let’s say the talk is correct. Let’s say I have feelings for Mila. Do you think that would be good for you?”
My tone has become cold. I apply more pressure with the knife. Savage, ugly thoughts tell me to forget about words, forget about the purpose of this, and eviscerate the worm.
“Please,” he whispers, finally breaking.
“Who else is working with Nikolai Petrov? When did this start?”
“I can’t. He’ll kill me.”
I laugh sickly. What a moronic thing to say. “You gave an innocent woman PTSD or added to the PTSD that was already there, and you’re worried abouthim?”
A moment later, Yevgeny is screaming. I’m not the spare anymore. I’m not a programmer or a game designer. I’m not even a Bratva second. I’m just a man locked in a room with another man who hurt the woman I care about most. I’m just a beast in a cage with a meal.
He keeps screaming. It’s nasty. It’s ruthless. If this were anybody else, I’d even call it evil, but he hurt my woman.
My. Fucking. Woman.
Nobody will ever get away with that.
After learning what I need to know, I shower but can’t grab any shuteye. I quietly check on Mila but decide not to disturb her when I see her lying on her side, the blankets tangled around her, her chest rising and falling softly. Heading back outside, I grab a basketball and start idly shooting hoops, trying to calm myself down.
Soon, Dimitri is home. He walks over, looking as dog-tired as I feel. We’ve been texting and calling throughout the night. He hasn’t had it easy either, hunting down Artyom while I’ve been handling things here.
“Can’t sleep?”
I shoot another hoop, swishing the net. “The man’s name is Kirill.” Not Yevgeny, like he pretended. “Our father hired him specifically so he’d work for Nikolai after he died. He sold us out—his own sons.”
“The only thing that confuses me is that you’re surprised.”
“Not surprised,” I grunt, hearing the man’s screams, seeing the vivid red of his blood, and smelling the metallic scent of it. “It’s just got me thinking. All those times, I thought about killing the prick. All those times I dreamed about doing the right thing, I should have.”
Yet, in a twisted, fucked-up way, that might not have been a good thing. It would mean I never would’ve met Mila. Nikolai never would’ve sent her here. Could I let her go to keep her safe? I don’t even know.
Dimitri says, “It would’ve meant?—”
“A war, I know, but at leastwewould’ve gotten to be the ones to do it. Right now, it’s like he’s still pulling the strings.”
“I’m going to get a couple of hours of sleep. I can’t afford much, but dammit, I’m running on empty. I need to recharge.” He gives me a big-brother look, the sort he often has over the years. I always think he doesn’t even realize it by the way he does it. “Thanks for handling Kirill.”
“I’d like to do more than handle him. It takes a big man to threaten women.” I’m not just talking about the usual rage we all feel at the prospect of a man threatening a woman, generally speaking. There’s nothinggeneralabout this. It’s all about Mila. “To scare them,” I go on. “He wasn’t so big when I got through with him.”
