Page 59 of Captive Ruin

I ignore him.

There’s a table with some equipment. A steel chair bolted to the floor draws the eye. But I don’t need any tools beyond my karambit.

This is personal.

I kick him in the back of his leg and he falls heavily, knees smacking into the concrete and pulling a cry. “Tell me, Serranto. Why do you think you’re here?”

“I don’t know, goddammit!” His voice is high and strained, eyes white as he looks up at me.

I raise my karambit, focusing on the blade and not on him. “You can do better than that.”

“I told you I work with the Volkov Bratva. Don’t you get it? I’m protected!”

I lean in close, smelling his fear. “Not right now you’re not.”

“You think you can take on the fucking Russian mafia? You can’t, you fool! They own me, they’ll own you!” He draws in a shuddering breath. “Listen. We don’t have to do this. Ask me your questions; I’ll answer what I can. Then take me back, and I… won’t say anything.”

I laugh. “You know how convincing that was?”

“Jesus, Lukas—”

I grip his hair, pulling back his head, then slowly carve my blade down his cheek. The white of his cheek bone glistens through the cut before blood fills the gap, spilling down his chin and dripping onto his flabby stomach. He screams with every inch, struggling ineffectively. I stop short of his mouth, wanting him still able to speak.

“All right, all right! I’ll tell you everything!” he gasps when I release him, spitting blood onto the floor. He’s wobbling where he kneels. I might yet have to string the bastard up if he collapses on me.

“You know what? I don’t give a shit about everything.” I walk behind him, forcing back his head and meeting his panicked eyes. He’s not yet scared enough. “What I really want to know is why you ignored my instruction.”

“About what?” he cries.

“You’ve forgotten?” I ask in disbelief. “After I told you, in no uncertain terms, to stay away from her? Was I not clear?”

Light dawns in his expression. “Jesus… this is about Amelia? About a fucking whore?”

I have to restrain myself from driving my blade through his eyeball right then and there. But a clean death is too good for this bastard.

Instead, I tighten my grip on him while I stand on his ankle, slowly increasing my weight until he gasps and whimpers. I watch his face the whole time, feeding off his pain.

“I suggest you are very careful what you call her.”

“Yes… yes,” he sobs, lips trembling.

It’s not enough. I grind my heel until something in his ankle gives way with a crunch. He cries out, the sound echoing through the bare room.

“You bastard,” he grunts through the pain. “I will see you fucking dead for this.”

“You really are a stupid asshole, aren’t you?” I tell him. “Which of us is on their knees, bound and bleeding?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Blood from his cheek glistens on his lips, and he spits it on the floor. “Whatever you do to me, the Volkovs will do worse to you.”

“You’ve made me break my word. You made me into a liar, to someone who matters more than you ever will.”

“I’m sorry!” he moans.

“It’s too late.” I set the curved edge of my karambit against his arm.

“You… can’t! Not over a goddamn—” He stops himself in time. “…woman! I’ll leave them alone, I promise!”

“The gallery?” I ask, pressing down. Cutting deep. “The exhibition?” He struggles, hissing in pain. It shifts his arm enough for the line to not be straight, and I frown in irritation. I should’ve tied him to that damn chair.