Page 110 of Brutal Vows

The man teases my fingers apart, splaying them like my hand is a starfish.

“Tell you what. We play game. One fact. Or one finger. You choose.”

“Lana,” Masha whispers, but her voice is just a croak. “Lana!” she calls out again, this time louder.

The assistant lets go of one hand, picks up a gun from the table, leans to the side to have a clear vision of Masha, and aims.

The shot cracks through the room.

Holy fuck. I close my eyes, not wanting to see how he blew her brains out.

Fuck.

Then she cackles. I stare at her, at her sinister grin. I can’t see any blood, not with her thick coat still on, sweat glistening on her good skin, the red blood streaks from her fingers now like warpaint on her cheek.

“Just my shoulder. I’m good.”

“Shut up, you whore!” my interrogator yells over his shoulder where he is leaning on the table, his back to her.

The shooter says something in Russian as he puts the gun down. I tune in on the sound to place the gun. When I feel his weight on my arm again, I glance at the table. Both guns are right on the edge. Not within my reach, but with a tilt of the table, they’ll fall out of reach on the ground.

“Now. You. One fact, or a finger.”

I tighten my grip on the chair, shifting my butt, testing the weight of it. It will have to do. And I’ll only have one shot at this.

It’s in your blood.

“Randazzo,” the man starts again, and I’m tired of his games. “You know him? You part of his Mafia?”

“No. But I know someone who is. Someone who took over from him. Claimed his operations, even though they are no blood connection. Not the assigned heir. A man with real ambition.”

Another shared glance. They don’t speak.

“Why are you looking for this guy?” I ask, not mentioning his name yet, seeing how far I can push them.

He runs the blade along my pinkie, and I curse because my body is trembling with apprehension, my fingers quivering and cold.

“You know nothing,” the man says as he jabs the knife’s point into the table.

Before I can speak, he levers the blade down, slicing right through my pinkie’s middle knuckle, and this time, I fucking yowl like a baby.

My whole body shakes as I stare in horror at my severed fingertip. I’m a shaken bottle of human adrenaline. Crack open the top and I’ll explode in rage, just like a can of Coke.

I bite my tongue, forcing myself to ignore the pain. “Franco Fiore. That’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it? Man with snake tattoos. All over his body. All black ink. He owes you money? Fucked up a job? Maybe didn’t arrive for a job? Didn’t deliver what he promised?”

I have their attention now. The man’s grip on my arm weakens, his mind seemingly churning, digesting my words.

“You know Franco Fiore?” my interrogator asks as he straightens, the knife loose in his hand.

“Uh-uhhh,” I groan a bit. Time to showcase my Russian. “I know Franco Fiore. And as you say in Russian, moy starshiy brat mudak yebanyi.”

My older brother is a fucking bastard.

In the two seconds of surprise, I jerk my arm from the other Russian’s grip, throw the table over with a brute strength I didn’t know I still had, hitting the other Russian in the shins. He sinks to the floor, howling in pain.

I lean forward and drag my chair from beneath my butt, gripping it with my tied hand. I swing it up, oblivious to its weight, and hit my interrogator with all the force I can muster.

The surprise attack winds him, the chair’s leg hitting him in the temple. He crumples to the floor, the knife clattering from his hand.