I take my phone out of my pocket. It’s 11:57. I’m good at measuring time in my head. Every scar I’ve ever earned was a lesson in counting out seconds, minutes, hours.
“Go on,” Tarasov growls through gritted teeth. “Do it.”
I wait, breathing in the stench of dead bodyguard and terrified man. The time flickers on my phone.
Finally, it’s midnight. I tighten my fingers around the scalpel and position the blade. I double-check to make sure the needle and thread are within easy reach. I grip his nutsack, holding his bollocks steady for the cut.
“Hey, Mask,” I say. “Ready to sell your soul for a fortune made of light?”
And then I break my rules.
42
COLE
For one perfect moment, the dungeon is silent. All the build-up, all the taunting, all the psychological horror of years—it’s suspended in an eyeblink outside of time.
Then, Tarasov bellows. Kate matches his howl with one of her own, a wordless roar like an ancient battle cry.
Tarasov’s hands scrabble beside his ankles, every muscle in his body straining against the spreader bar. Kate drops her scalpel by her side.
Tarasov starts to shudder—not the shivering he was doing before, but the full-on convulsions of an epileptic seizure. Kate gathers the ruined wedding dress, pulling it away from a spreading crimson lake.
Tarasov twitches, his fingers making feeble movements. Kate looks on, kneeling in a pool of blood.
Tarasov hisses, leaking air like a slashed tire. Kate sighs as the first thick rope of blood reaches the waiting drain.
Tarasov stills. Kate stares.
One minute. Two minutes. Three.
Kate sits back on her heels.
Her movement releases me. I go to the panel built into the wall, the one beside the light switches. It only takes a moment to bring up the controls. One swipe kills the audio on all four cameras. A second takes out the video.
I collect the top sheet from the bed, yards and yards of featureless black silk. Only when I come to stand beside Kate do I realize precisely what she did.
My Kate wasn’t satisfied with castrating Pyotr Tarasov. Her first two cuts must have taken his balls. But she severed his cock as well. And then she continued reaching between his legs, finding the front of his thigh and slashing all the way to bone as she severed his femoral artery.
I cast the sheet into the air, holding one side as it billows like a sail before settling over the two bratva corpses, over the scalpel, over the spool of black thread and a needle that never had a chance to save a life.
Once all of it is covered, I help Kate to her feet.
She stares at the sheet, her gaze fogged with an emotion I can’t read. Her empty hands dangle by her side, smeared with blood. A red streak paints her cheek. The end of her braid traces scarlet splotches on her top.
“I broke the rules,” she says, sounding stunned.
“He knew he was never getting out of here alive.”
“I’m only allowed one cut. That’s the rule. Just one cut.”
“Animals like Tarasov never follow the rules.”
“I’mnot an animal.”
I fold my arms around her. “He’ll never hurt another little girl again.”
“All these years, I’ve dreamed about hurting him. Killing him. When I finally had the chance… I broke the rules.”
