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My head was suddenly too heavy for my neck to carry.
I winced at my discomfort and barely two steps forward, the smell of my own perfume made me nauseous.
That's strange.
Unable to hold it back any longer, I dashed into the bathroom and flung to the toilet. I vomited …again. It was the third time today.
I flushed, got cleaned up, and went back to my room. There was a knock at the door. I sluggishly opened the door and saw Laura, our housekeeper, standing outside.
“Are you all right, ma'am?” she asked me.
“Hmm?” I was lost for a second there, “Oh, yeah. Yeah. I'm fine.” I faked a smile.
Girl, you're not fine!
She smiled at me and turned to leave. I closed the door and turned to the large wall mirror opposite, staring fearfully at my own reflection after it hit me that I was way past my period.
Nausea, three vomits in one day, missed period … I'm so screwed.
Chapter 8 - Nikolai
I could see him trembling as he sat tied to a chair with his mouth gagged. The fear in his eyes was palpable as I carefully approached him. The sound of my shoes clacking on the concrete floor added to the atmosphere of terror that had already taken hold of him.
He tried to say something, to defend himself, but the cloth in his mouth didn't allow the words to come out. The gaunt man looked battered, his face was swollen, and his head was bleeding, as was his nose. His breathing was shaky and weak as if he had already given up the ghost.
I stopped in front of him and let a cloud of smoke rise into the air. His eyes widened as I took off my jacket and handed it to the burly man at my side.
I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and cracked my knuckles.
“So, you are Anatoli’s contact, huh?” I began, the Dunhill cigarette still hanging from my lips. With a subtle nod–a hidden signal–one of my men pulled the cloth from Sanchez's mouth and an exhausted gasp came out.
“You stole from me. You tried to fuck me over.” I bent over, hands on my knees as I looked him in the eyes. “Why?”
He mumbled something under his breath, the beating must have affected his vocals. He strained and struggled to be audible.
“What was that?” I leaned closer, so close to his bloody mouth, from which a streak of saliva was drooling. I took the cigarette out of my mouth and pressed the burning tip into the fresh wound on the back of his left palm. Both his hands were pierced. Judging by the precision of the holes, I knew it must have been from a drill. He winced as the sharp sting shot through him and caused a low groan to escape his lips.
“Please … I didn’t …it was Anatoli’s idea …please” He stumbled on his words.
“Anatoli is six feet under … I want to know what he has told you …” I hovered over him.
“No …nothing. I don’t know …I just contact …” He groaned in his Spanish accent.
I was so fucking furious; I suddenly grabbed his dark hair and almost tore it out of his scalp. His painful moans meant nothing to me. He had tried to fuck me over, and Anatoli had betrayed the Brotherhood by breaking our most precious code, loyalty. Both knew the consequences and yet both went along with this stupid plan.
“No one … steals … from … me!” I shouted angrily. With every word, I punched him hard in the face. My blows were so powerful that blood spurted with each impact. I turned around and a second later my foot hit his face and both he and the chair he was strapped to fell backward. The impact was loud. I spat derisively at him as he lay groaning on the floor. My hatred of traitors knew no bounds.
I was wiping my knuckles when the door opened and Savic came over to me. He whispered in my ear, and I paused and thought for a moment.
“Boris, take care of him,” I said to the man at my side.
He nodded, and as I turned to leave with Savic, I could hear Sanchez’s voice pleading and begging for mercy. The sounds of Boris's blows soon drowned out his pleas.
Savic followed me out of the room, and we went to my office, I headed over to my chair and sighed as I sat down. “Talk to me. What did you find?” I asked him.
Savic sat down on the visitor's chair opposite me and placed a brown envelope on the table. He opened it, took out a picture of a white-haired man in a black suit, and slid it over to me. I casually took it in my hand and looked at it.
In the picture, the man, in his mid-forties, gets out of a white Rolls-Royce Phantom. He holds a Cohiba cigar between his fingers. The gold Rolex on his left wrist glistened in the sunlight as he turned his gaze away from the hidden camera that had recorded him.
