Page 135 of Nemesis

“You may instate an underboss of your choosing to run it. Additionally, I’m prepared to offer tax-free transportation of your arms deals through my port.”

The woman, Cass, I believe, smiles softly.

“And lastly, you’ll have my word that if a child of yours ever needs any form of aid in Vasiliy’s and my power to give, they will have it immediately. No questions asked.”

I sit back, letting my words drop like stones in a pond.

Mikhail Solokov, the Pakhan of the Solokov Bratva, tilts his gaze to the woman on his right. Her only response is a knowing smile.

“I thought you liked to gamble?” she whispers, rising from the chair.

“Alright, Ms. Siderov.” His attention flicks back to me. “It appears you’ll have your war.”

Blood sprays through the air in crimson drops as my fist crashes into the pummeled face again and again.

A soft crunch.

His nose gives way below my flesh.

“Please! I-I’ll give the money back! All of it!”

My knuckles split on the next impact.

“I-I’ll pay! I’ll pay i-interest!”

I hit harder.

My vision blurs into shades of red. Everything I touch bleeds.

Eventually, the man loses consciousness below me. I finally pull back, flexing my cramping fingers. A bizarre wave of jealousy spawns at the sight of the unconscious body below me.

I haven’t been sleeping well.

Partially because I can’t help but imagine Octavia in trouble somewhere, all alone on the other side of the world. It also hasn’t helped that my uncle has been keeping me impossibly busy with his petty enforcement tasks, day and night.

I know it’s a punishment.

He hasn’t let me see my sister yet, either. The only reason I haven’t lost my mind and stormed into my own residence is that Anya’s nanny has been sending me daily updates, assuring me she’s healthy and happy. My mother has been off vacationing with her latest escapade for the last year, so at least I don’t have to worry about that.

I haven’t dared to reach out to the Siderovs yet, in fear that Uncle will see it as another act of treachery and throw Octavia’s ransom back online. I’m in the doghouse until he decides I’m a loyal mutt once more.

Shoving the man’s limp body onto his kitchen floor, I step over to the nearby sink and twist the rusty nozzle. The cold water runs red over my knuckles before rushing down the drain.

I’m so fucking exhausted.

I have no idea how long I stand at the sink. Eventually, my cuts clot, and the water runs clear into the basin. I immediately miss the dark red hue, so similar to the soft strands of hair I long to run my fingers through. One of my nails presses into the largest cut, reopening the skin and allowing a steady ooze to resume into the sink.

Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me?

I sway on my legs. Am I even awake right now?

A ring distracts me from the question.

My damp hands fumble into my pockets, cuts stinging against the rough fabric. Uncle’s name flashes across my phone screen.

Great. Another task.

Maybe this one isn’t immediate. I could probably use a few hours of shut-eye.