Page 62 of Captive Ruin

He doesn’t reply.

I pour the water over his back, washing away the blood. The wound gleams pink beneath. He gasps at the contact, hands clenching, wrists raw where he’s strained against the cable ties. His boxers are stained with his blood.

“Let’s talk about the Volkovs,” I suggest.

“I don’t… know much,” he chokes out.

“That’s fine,” I assure him. “Start with what you do know.”

“Told you at the gala. They pay me… for art.”

He must think I’m an idiot. It’s vaguely insulting. “You mean they launder money through you. What else?”

“That’s all,” he grunts. “I swear.”

“Who have you met?”

He shakes his head. “They’ll… kill me.”

I chuckle. “You really are a dumb bastard, aren’t you?”

The salt is a decent-quality French variety in a blue-and-white shaker, and I sprinkle a little onto his back, then rub it in with the toe of my boot.

Serranto’s screams are quieter this time, like he doesn’t have much strength left.

“A boyevik.” He gasps at last. “Pavel… Makarov.”

I tut. “Not even a brigadiry?”

“They’re still going to fucking kill you for this.”

“How will they know, when they won’t even find your body?”

His stunned surprise is almost comical.

“What did you think I was going to do to you?” I kneel down beside him, pulling one finger away from his hand. The one with his signet ring.

Serranto begs and cries as I cut it off, cursing my name. With nothing to brace against, I have to press quite hard, and it doesn’t come away cleanly. But that doesn’t matter. I drop it in the box I found, a souvenir for later.

“I think we’re done here, don’t you?”

He looks at me, face streaked with tears and snot. “Are you… going to… let me go?”

“Of course not.” I pull his head up by his hair, resting my blade against his throat. “I’m going to show you what happens when you go after what’s mine. When you don’t do as you’re told. When you compromise my reputation through your selfish stupidity.”

The acrid stench of urine permeates the air. “Please… God no… wait…”

I draw the blade slowly, feeling it digging in, cutting. Blood gushes onto the concrete, darkening it.

Serranto chokes wetly as he tries to draw a breath.

I release his head, stepping back, watching as the pool of crimson expands beneath him, and the light fades from his eyes.

It is a bit of a mess. Haynes won’t be happy. I’ll have to make it up to him with a bonus of some type.

Picking up my box, I wander back upstairs. I didn’t even get much blood on me that time, and it doesn’t take long to clean up. The song I was humming is stuck in my head, and I whistle it as I wipe down the sink.

Sixteen