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I cup my cheek. The throbbing stops, but the sting of the attack remains. “I was just a teenager trying to act normal, you know?” I shrug as if that’s going to explain it. “I asked Jonas if we could forget about the Citta Nostra, our father’s murderer, trying to get all that shit back in order, and he…he…”
The lump returns.
And I don’t think it’ll ever go away this time.
I sniffle while letting the words roll over each other, “He beat me so badly that I had to wear a long-sleeved shirt for the last month of senior year.”
The chaise lounge creaks. I notice Pavel digging his fingers into the fabric, his face a dark haze of fury. He embraces me suddenly, causing me to squeak as he hugs me to his chest. “If Jonas ever touches you again, Liya, I’ll make sure it stops.” He squeezes me harder. “For good.”
The relief I feel from hearing that is as sweet as a fresh drop of rain cooling my neck on a humid day. I circle his waist, hugging him so tightly that I’m sure I’m hurting him. “But he’s my brother.”
“And you have a crown tattooed on your shoulder blade. Nobody can lay a hand on a Pakhan’s wife,” he says furiously. “Least of all your lousy fucking brother.”
More promises pour from his lips, more affirmations.
And despite how good it feels to have someone defend me, I can’t help but remember that these promises of safety are coming right after he shot a man in the head.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. He just pulled the trigger.
If the time comes—whenthe time comes—will Pavel do the same to my brother?
And can I still stand by his side when he does?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Pavel
“Welcome to hell, Daza,” Stepan says to the man strapped to a chair. He shoves a cloth into Oscar Daza’s mouth and pats his cheek. “If you’re good, I’ll let you breathe.”
After three days of little food and almost no sleep, the man looks ragged. Bruises line his face and arms from where my brigadiers have beaten him senseless. Blood stains his sweat-coated chest and his jeans are torn, revealing wounds that have hardly healed up.
And they’ll never heal. Not after I’m through with him.
“Tell me everything,” I say while approaching Daza. Despite his withered appearance, he retains a defiant glare. I’d almost commend him for being so loyal if it weren’t so fucking foolish of him. “Your boss doesn’t care about you. What kind of don would let you disappear and not even bother looking for you?”
I shake my head and motion to Stepan, who holds a jumper cable to Daza’s stomach. A second of consideration passes before I gesture for him to lower it. Fear flashes in Daza’s eyes when he realizes where I’m pointing.
My smile grows devious. “We already looked you up, Daza. Your wife left you years ago. Your kids don’t even want to talk to you.” I click my tongue twice. “I doubt you’ll need those anymore.”
Stepan touches the tips of the jumper cables together. Sparks fly with a vicious crack, causing Daza to flinch.
I raise my eyebrows. I’ve got his attention now. “Who else is involved? The more names you give me, the more limbs I’ll let you keep.”
Concentration seeps into his face, shadows clouding the fear that once sat there.
I shrug. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Stepan touches the cable to Daza’s cock and balls. The man squeals with pain, but he doesn’t fight for his balls—or his life.
“Speak, Daza,” I command. More electricity crackles in the room. “Give me a namenow.”
He keeps taking the torture Stepan dishes out and keeps the cloth tight between his teeth. When I yank it out, he bares his teeth, gums glistening with dirt, grime, and blood.
“Talk, asshole!”
He remains silent.
I crumple the cloth in my hand as I take a step back. The room spins around me, faces melting together until they become a blur. Stepan, Volodya, Kostya, Daza—they’re fun-house mirrors now.
