After wrapping Zoran’s ring finger in a napkin, I store it in my pocket. Nikolai doesn’t need proof that I’ve taken down the last man on his hit list, but I like adding trophies to my collection. The pompously large ruby ring that began Zoran’s demise twelve months ago will look fetching in my cabinetry of kills.
I stand, snagging Nikolai’s bloody knife off the counter on the way. “Any last words?”
Zoran’s blubbering annoys me. Not as much as Zariah popping into my thoughts during a claim of vengeance, but enough I slit Zoran’s throat before a syllable escapes his lips. Usually, I’d stay and watch the show. It’s quite humorous witnessing a grown man struggle to hold his throat together. No amount of stitches could save him, but supposedly two measly, worthless hands might.
Tonight I’m not interested, proving it isn’t just Zariah messing with my head. I’m more restless than usual. I’m the most unhinged I’ve ever been. Things never end well when I let my desires overrule laws I created. I learned that the hard way before I even became a man.
While wiping Zoran’s blood off Nikolai’s blade onto my trousers, I make my way to the door I entered not even twenty minutes ago. I’m halfway across the blood-stained floor when reality dawns: I just slit a man’s throat in a bar with five witnesses.
The bartender freezes like a statue when I spin around to face him. His eyes reveal his desire to run, but he’s too frozen in fear to do anything but stare at me, unblinking and unmoving. The fret on his face eases when I place a twenty on the counter. I’d like to leave a more generous tip—he has one hell of a mess to clean—but I didn’t consider the carnage when I decided to fulfill Nikolai’s request earlier than anticipated. I only calculated the cost of a drink. I can kill without mercy, but I’m not one to skip a bill.
“Keep the change.”
With a wink that exposes the adrenaline thickening my blood, I exit the death-desecrated bar. My slip into the back of an SUV with blacked-out windows occurs with four marked police cars skidding around the corner. I make a mental note that they’ve shaved four minutes off their arrival time. I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time.
Yes, there’s always a next time.
As my vehicle moves away from flashing lights, I dig my phone out of my pocket along with Zoran’s dissected finger. Once again, Nikolai doesn’t need proof I’ve done as requested, but it’s more fun this way.
After snapping a picture with Zoran’s index finger presenting as my middle finger, I send it to Nikolai. With our difference in time, he should be asleep, so you can imagine my surprise when a reply pops up almost instantaneously.
Nikolai:That better not be your dick, you limp-dicked bastard.
I laugh while punching out my reply.
Me:I considered sending your wife a picture of my cock, but then I realized my phone doesn’t have a wide-angle lens. Tell her I’ll give it another shot to get it all in one photo when we FaceTime tomorrow.
My laughter bellows around the interior of my car when his reply is nothing but a screen full of knife emojis.
Happy to end our conversation with him threatening my life, I return my phone to my pocket. It’s halfway in when it buzzes with another message. This one shocks me to the core.
Nikolai:Thank you.
I stare at the two words of his message, equally stunned and pleased. Nikolai isn’t a man to issue praise. I can’t recall ever hearing those words leave his lips. Even when I guaranteed I had no issues helping him scratch off the last name on the list of men who bid on his wife, he didn’t voice anything close to commendation. He would have eventually taken care of business himself, but with Zoran floating between safe houses, and Nikolai being needed on home turf, he knew this might have been our only chance of snagging him. I was inclined to agree. This was the safest and quickest option.
Although doubtful writing praise is easier than accepting it, I give it a shot by replying:
Me:You’re welcome.
Our conversation veers back to normal territory when Nikolai’s response pops up on my screen a few seconds later.
Nikolai:But don’t think I won’t slit your throat if you send my wife a photo of your dick.
Happy to leave him on tenterhooks, I don’t reply to his message. My failure to respond will keep him up all night, and for some fucked up reason, that pleases me greatly.
When I spot a familiar exit coming up, I scoot to the edge of my seat. “Take this exit.”
The driver’s dark eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Are you not going home?”
Not that it is any of his business, I shake my head. I’ve got a ton of adrenaline to burn off, and the whores in Khimki are more sophisticated than any at the compound. I know this because I own them.
When the driver makes apfftnoise, I pay closer attention to his dark eyes. They’re familiar, brimming with condescending amusement, and bubbling my blood with more than sexual arousal.
“What’s with the noise, Kostya?”
I don’t know why I’m letting a bottom-feeder like Kostya annoy me. I would have brushed off his whiny remark with my fists if my conversation with Nikolai earlier this evening didn’t play through my mind the instant I realized who my driver is, but now he has me wondering exactly how much has changed while I was away. Before I left for Vegas, family business stayed between family members, so how did a hired goon like Kostya know about my arranged marriage before me?
“It’s nothing urgent. I just figured you’d want to get in first.”
