“You should be,” Tarasov snarls.
I’ve had enough of negotiations that don’t include me. Crossing to the hose that hangs on the wall, I see that Cole has planned for all eventualities; there’s a faucet for hot water and another one for cold. The nozzle on the coiled gray hose has half a dozen settings, fromjettoraintomist.
Tarasov glares defiance at me, even though his voice sounds thready through his chapped lips. “My pakhan will have your tits for this.”
“Your pakhan won’t spare a thought for you. Not after he sees you grovel.” I study his naked body like it’s a drawing in a biology textbook. His wrists sag in his cuffs, the weight of hisarms pulling them against the sharp metal. I suspect that if I cut him down now, he’d spasm so hard he’d go into shock.
“Never,” Tarasov says.
“We’ll see about that.”
I blast him with the hose, leaving the temperature on cold. He howls as the stream hits his dangly bits. I ignore him as I sluice his filth toward the drain in the floor. By the time I finish, he’s chattering hard enough that I can hear his teeth across the room.
“You have a choice,” I say. “You can wear my wedding dress.” I nod toward the heap of stained taffeta in the corner. “Or the matron of honor dress I wore for Breagha.”
“Go t— to hell,” he says.
“Choose.”
“Not on your life, you fucking c— cunt.”
“It’syourlife,” I say. “How long do you think you’ll last, without something to keep you warm?” I give him a moment to think. The only sound in the room is water dripping from his hair.
“The wedding dress,” he finally says.
I turn to Cole. “Get it on him,” I say. “And give him some water to drink.”
Cole and I haven’t rehearsed this. He’s still recovering from the beating he took at the freeport. But he inclines his head as if he’s been taking private lessons from Nilsson.
I leave before I have to watch him follow my orders.
On Friday, Tarasov’s choice is staying in his spread-eagle pose or taking a doggy-style stress position, wrists chained beside his ankles. He chooses the new posture.
On Saturday, his choice is a loaf of moldy bread or a slab of rancid beef. He chooses the bread.
On Sunday, he gets to decide between forfeiting his password to all his bratva computer accounts or taking a bullet in his brain. He chooses the password.
On Monday, Cole finds me in my office. I’m staring at my computer screen, working my way through the bratva accounts Tarasov compromised. I’m not changing anything yet, not taking advantage of my access. I need time to learn my way around.
“How long?” Cole asks.
I don’t pretend I don’t understand. “Until he’s paid enough. Not just for me. For what he planned with Breagha. For what he did with Mam, plotting to take over the Canton Crew.”
“Your sister’s safe.”
She is. She’s living with Granny across the road. Every morning, her mind is clearer than it was the day before. She’d be devastated to learn what I’m doing downstairs.
“He’s a bad man, Cole.” I’m proud that I don’t plead.
“He is. And what he did to you can never be forgiven.”
“I’m fine,” I say, brushing away compassion.
Cole crosses the room. The bruises on his face have faded; there’s just a hint of shadow along his jaw. He brushes my hair back, leaving his fingers tangled in my curls. “You’re more than fine. You’re strong. You’re brave,” he says, and the echo is so close to what Granny said five days ago that I wonder if they’ve been talking. “But don’t let him black out your heart. He couldn’t do that to you when you were eight. Don’t give that to him now.”
I turn my head, and my lips find the pulse point in his wrist. “I won’t,” I say. “I promise.”
Cole’s right.
