Page 105 of Brutal Vows

Because if we don’t get out of here, where will we end up?

With Chertnikov.

But whatever happens, he can’t get hold of us. He’ll show no mercy.

Luca is already wounded, and Masha is spiraling.

I’m the only one of us with a gun.

I should walk out of here, wielding the gun and shooting without asking questions, but I’d have to put Annushka down. How could I choose to leave her behind while she’s still crying, and instead go out there with my pathetic gun skills? There are two shooters on the other side of the door. They’ve shown no mercy.

I don’t want to know what they would do to an innocent baby. Never mind a little girl.

49

LUCA

So this is what it feels like to have a noose around your neck. My mind rewinds to the day Dominic and I played hangman in the old Don’s basement, killing two random Russians. Turns out they weren’t so random, after all, but rather the catalyst for this whole fuck-up.

But that mess gave me Milana. My wife.

It was short, but I’ve lived a full life. Thanks to her, I got a taste of bliss. Of love. Of being with a woman who I could be with in the light—for myself. And she bared herself to me completely in misguided trust. Look where the fuck I landed us. I should have trusted my gut, but her baby⁠—

Seeing her take Zoe from Masha almost broke me. As much as she tried to school her face, she couldn’t hide her joy and relief, or her love for her baby girl. Now I’m here, with a bullet that went straight through my thigh, limping around like a fucking idiot as I try to put enough pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. No weapon, no backup, at the mercy of two trigger-happy Russians.

I know only one thing: I need to get us the fuck out of here. Milana doesn’t have it in her to pull the trigger. She might have the gun, but I can’t count on her, not when she’s looking after Zoe.

We’re in an open space, kitchen, dining, and sitting room all in one, a fire crackling in the central hearth. It’s warm inside. The table has a camping gas stove, two cups, packs of cigarettes. Lighters. Half-drunk tumblers of water. Could be vodka. The men seem to have been hunkered down here for a couple of days already, waiting. Tins of food are stacked in one corner, empty vodka bottles on the table, cigarette stubs in the ashtray. Two backpacks, propped up in one corner, have clothes spilling out of their open tops. The whole place reeks of old sweat, stale tobacco ash, and decay.

But there are only two of them. Two I could take on if the right opportunity came my way, provided they didn’t multiply. Who knows the relation between this lot and the guys from the vans parked in front of Masha’s apartment. They could be on their way as backup, or this could be two different Bratva factions poking around in the same salad. I’ll have to bide my time, but I don’t have all night. Masha is still the x in my fucking equation, and as long as she doesn’t lose her shit, we might get somewhere.

Here’s the problem: Masha has no shits left to give. Nothing left to lose. I see her now in the flickering light of the fire. The map the acid burned on her face. The continents on the sea of her once-smooth and perfect skin. The parts of her that didn’t get burned are beautiful. Her uninjured eye is a deep blue, her lashes thick, just like her hair, or what’s left of it. Her hand is a dripping faucet of blood, but she doesn’t even bother to pinch the wound closed. He shot two fingers off. They’re somewhere outside in the snow. The perfect wolf taster.

The two Russians grumble something to each other, eyes never leaving us, guns pointing at our heads, then one kicks a chair toward me and indicates I should sit. The other has Masha by the hair and forces her to sit in another chair, opposite me.

They don’t talk. While the one Russian stands guard, the other uses zip ties to bind our wrists to the wooden chairs’ arms, which are handcrafted and rustic. I flex my wrist to leave as wide a gap as possible, gripping the armrest. When he is done, they stare at us as they strip off their thick camouflage jackets. Now they’re only wearing long-sleeved T-shirts and cargo pants, which accentuate their middle-aged guts. I definitely have the height and fitness advantage when it comes to these guys, but now that I’m tied to a chair, the odds are no longer in my favor.

One turns his back on us to light two cigarettes. They finish whatever is in the tumblers, and I deduce the routine as they smoke. They are preparing themselves to do things to us. To make us talk.

Fuck my life.

This was bound to happen to one of us Scalera boys sooner or later. Tables turn. People fuck up. Idiots get caught and are made to confess. Lucky Luca. One last time.

They kill their cigarettes in the overflowing make-shift ashtray and the one man turns to the hearth and prods at the logs with an iron poker. He shoves it into the red-hot coals and balances it against another chair to make it stay put.

Ah, fuck. The joys. I steel myself.

Masha shifts in her seat and catches my gaze. We haven’t even collaborated to get our story straight. Now we’re fucked. At least there’s no noise coming from the room Milana is in. I bet she’s trying not to attract any attention to her, keeping Zoe quiet at all costs. I don’t want her to witness this shit, either. She’s been through enough.

The one Russian walks up to me and slaps me lightly in the face. “Pretty boy. We leave face for last.”

I smirk. “Thank you.”

He turns to Masha. “A baby, eh? Who fuck face like this?”

His English is a bit cryptic, but he is speaking it for my benefit. If only I can fuck his face up right now.

“In the dark,” Masha says, her voice cutting, “I’m just a body to fuck. Men don’t have standards.”