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Across the room, Sima watches me with fascination. He plays with his metal lighter, flipping it open and shut as if to keep time. The flame glows bright before snuffing out each time.
“Have it your way, then.” I start sawing through the thin skin. Blood gushes and with a single practiced stroke, I remove one of his testicles and hold it up in front of him.
He can’t control himself any longer. This time, hescreams.
“Sounds like it’s both.” I toss the useless piece of flesh aside, and grab the man by his meaty jowls. “Was killing me part of his plan too?”
He continues to groan in pain, and I wrench his head back, forcing him to look at me.
He’s wheezing, his pupil dilating to the point of invisibility. Finally, I see a speck of fear in his eyes.
I curl my lip and dig the knife against his remaining testicle. A tear leaks out of his single remaining eye and mixes with the blood running over his bruises.
“Fuck you!” he gasps.
“Refusing to talk isn’t going to do you any good.” I let go of his hair. “Why keep doing this to yourself?”
The man rolls his neck, gazing at me with some of his earlier defiance. He licks his chin, smearing crimson all over his teeth and lips. Then he dares togrin.
“Because talking won’t save me, you Russian fuck.” He spits out another mouthful of blood. “You can skip the theatrics and just get this over with.”
“Well, we seem to be at an impasse.” Gliding my thumb over my knife’s handle, I sigh. “Because I have no intention of getting this over withuntilyou talk. And if you do, I’ll let you diehalfa man.”
“We’re getting nowhere with this, Kostya.” Sima says in Russian.
“I’m not giving him an easy exit.” I snap.
Sima clicks his lighter open, the flame dancing in his earth-brown eyes, and sighs. The burn scars on his fingers stand out on his pale skin. “There’s no reason to keep torturing him.”
“Yes, there is.”
My victim’s single eye bulges from his skull as I approach. His resistance feeds the part of me that’s lashing out, searching for a way to reassert control.
“Why go back on this deal?” Wedging the tip of my knife against his remaining testicle, I give it a hard tug and feel the soft organ detach.
The man screams again until his voice cracks. And through his broken vocal cords, two words emerge.
“Marriage!” He chokes out. “Inheritance!”
I smile savagely back at Sima. “See, Sima? They all break eventually.”
I turn my attention back to my victim, but his head droops down and he’s limp. “Wake up.” I dig my knife through his shoulder. Blood leaks steadily from the fresh wound, but there’s no reaction.
Sima places his hand gingerly on my shoulder. “He’s dead, Kostya.”
Angling the dead man’s head back, I gaze into his blank expression—mouth drawn agape and single eye unblinking.
“Yob tvoyu mats!” Motherfucker!
“What do you think he meant by that?” Sima asks.
Marriage. Inheritance.
The gears are turning in my head, and it doesn’t take long before I figure out exactly what those two words mean.
“They’re going to force her to marry Domenico,” I whisper. “That’s why they called us here to Italy for this meeting. They never intended to agree to a peace deal. They wanted mehereso they can kill me. And once I’m dead …”
“Alisa Yurevna becomes the sole heir.” Sima nods. “This is so stupidly simple that it’s almost brilliant. But Alla Antonovna won’t just release the inheritance, will she?”
