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I’m expecting all sorts of things. Even possibly Lucius in another fucked up twist of events.
But the last thing I’m expecting is for Lena Burtka to walk up donning giant sunglasses that take up half her ghostly face.
We all stare at each other for a second. My men don’t lower their guns, nor do I tell them to.
She sniffles and then glances around the trashed restaurant which reeks of piss. “The last time I was here they served very tasty dumpling soup.”
“That must’ve been a decade ago. You fucking with us or are you reallySolnishko?”
A frown etches onto her pale lips. “Solnishkois dead. He has been dead for a very long time. I thought you understood this.”
“I don’t give a fuck either way. I told you what I want. You said you had it.”
“Americans,” she huffs, clutching both sides of her winter coat together. Though the sunglasses she wears cover half her face, she pulls off a haughty expression well enough with how her nostrils flare and she tilts her chin up. “I did not say I have what you want. I said I know where it is. And if you expect me to tell you then you should have your men be respectful enough to refrain from pointing their weapons at me!”
Fair enough.
I throw a quick glance over my shoulder to signal for them to stand down. But that’s about as much courtesy as Lena Burtka—Lena fucking Volchok—is going to get from me.
“I’ve got a few questions, Lena,” I say. “I know you’re Volchok’s daughter. You’re Ernest Adams’s mistress. You’ve been deep in his back pocket. Even supporting his campaign for mayor. How do I know this isn’t a set up?”
“Daughter? Mistress?” She repeats the words with a sudden lilt to her stern Russian voice. Apparently, the accusation’s amusing enough that she rips off her huge sunglasses for the laugh that makes its way out of her. “You are very much in the dark. I believed I was dealing with someone who knew more. This is a waste of my time.” She moves to go.
“Don’t fucking move. You said you have info about what I want. You’re going to provide that info to me right now,” I growl, my patience snapping in half. “Spit it out or we’ll do things the hard way!”
Lena Volchok’s not intimidated by Mafia threats. She smirks, her translucent blue eyes raking me up and down. “I have never fucked Mr. Adams. You can tell his daughter that. She is very upset about it.”
“Something I’ll remain skeptical about. The info you have. Now.”
She takes a step closer. “Volchok was not my father.”
“The records show differently.”
“The records are wrong. Doctored. We were not related in any capacity. That was merely a cover we were given when we began working together. Volchok would handle Kozlov’s business dealings. Quite often I was a part of the… deal.”
The way she utters the word ‘deal’ lets me know all I need to know about the use they found in Lena.
But it’s none of my concern, so I let her know this.
“I don’t give a fuck. The info. You have sixty seconds or I’m moving on to other means of extracting info.” It’s me who takes the step this time, stalking toward her. My hand draws my trusted Balisong knife, a favorite of mine during interrogation sessions.
I usually avoid getting rough with women, but if the situation calls for it—if she’s withholding information she has—I’ll do what’s necessary. Most times, they give it up almost immediately. Though Lena seems like the type to hold out ’til the bitter end as her smirk lingers, and her gaze never falters from mine.
“Solnishkowas in Stefania’s phone because it was her nickname. She saved it in there as a reminder. She loved him very much,” she goes on calmly as if I haven’t just threatened to injure her very badly. “I have his phone. Which is why when you texted him, you texted me.”
“That’s the story you’re going with? Ernest isn’t going to like that I cut up his mistress’s face.”
“If you were smart, you would pay attention to the information I am giving you. If you think none of it plays a part in the evidence you are looking for, then you are more foolish than Mr. Adams says you are. You will surely fail against a man as ingenious as Lucius Mancino. You are no match for him. How disappointing.”
I’ve had enough of her games.
As she turns a second time to leave, I wrench a hold of her by the arm and drag her over to the nearest table. Her frightened shriek fills the air as she twists and thrashes to set herself free. My grip is ironclad against any struggle she puts forth. I slam her down against the table with her head turned to the side, her cheek pressed into the moth-eaten tablecloth. Her short, white-blonde hair is strewn across her face, a disheveled mess that’s fallen in her eyes.
She continues fighting, flopping against me. I merely push her back down and brush the hair away from her cheek, making sure plenty of skin is available.
“Shame I’ve got to do this. Scars like these never go away,” I say, twirling my knife between my fingers in my free hand. “Hold still or I mightreallydo some damage—”
“STOP!” she screams, squirming under my grip. “Let me up. I will tell you. I swear onSolnishko’slife.”
