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“And the kid who got away?”
“Our cousin,” he hiccups. “P-please…he’s only seventeen.”
“Old enough to know better,” I snarl. “Who made the cocktails, Petyr?”
The kid’s eyes flare, but he’s smart enough to know when not to lie. “Th-they gave ‘em to us. Told to bring them to this location and ‘have fun.’” The words come a little easier now that he believes his cooperation will save him.
“Who is ‘they’?”
He sobs again before he answers. “I…I honestly don’t know!” he insists. “The man didn’t give us a name. He just said that if we did it, he would pay us.”
I arch a brow. “How much?”
“A thousand up front. And he promised another grand after the job was done.”
Blyat'.I’m going to be sick. “You bartered your lives away for two thousand dollars?” I rub a hand over my face and blow out a heavy breath. “First life lesson: know your fucking worth. When you’re about to sell your soul to the devil, get a better price.”
He gulps and sweats.
“See, here’s the thing.” I straighten up a bit and drum my fingers on the back of the chair. “You and your friends…your brother…” I nod toward the body across the room. “You took a very low price for a very big job. And you attackedmybrothers, in my warehouse. I don’t tolerate threats against the Zakharov Bratva.”
The moment I say the name, the boy’s face blanches. “Zakharov…? He…he didn’t—”
“He didn’t tell you who you were attacking,” I finish for him. “Second life lesson, kid: always know what you’re getting yourself into. You might have been able to walk away from him. But no one walks away from me.”
His skin is deathly pale now. As pale as his dead, bloodless brother’s.
“I didn’t know!”
“You should have done your research.”
“I…I can find him! Try and get you a…a name.”
“Why bother?” I scoff. “I know who sent you even if you don’t. Benedict Bellasio, although it’s more likely the person who approached you and your friends was Gregor, his brother.”
The kid starts crying. Snot and tears smear his face. “Please,” he begs. “M-my mother…my mother is old. She needs me. I have a sister, too; she’s only in high school. My father left us…please…”
Dima glances at me. Sighing, I slide off the chair and walk toward the back entrance of the warehouse, Dima close behind. The door has been singed, but it’s still functional.
“What are you gonna do with the snot-nosed toddler in there?” Dima asks, pulling out a cigarette. Not a good sign—he never smokes unless he’s stressed.
“You don’t want me to kill him, do you?”
He shrugs, but I know him better than to take that at face value. “It’s ultimately your call,” he defers. “But for what it’s worth, I believe the kid. He and his idiot friends were just trying to earn some cash. Wreak some havoc. Have some fun while they did it. They didn’t know who they were fucking with.”
“Since when is ignorance an excuse?”
Dima sparks his lighter. “You forgave Archie, didn’t you?”
My eyes snap to his. “I haven’t forgiven him,” I growl. “I’m forced to keep him alive for now. That’s all. He may still serve a purpose.”
“The kid might, too.”
“You want to recruit him?”
“Why not?” Dima shrugs. “He’s strapped for cash, he’s got dependents, and if he was bold enough to set fire to our shit, he stands to make something of himself in this Bratva. We could mold him. He’d be loyal, I guarantee it.”
“Loyalty is never assured,” I mutter. “Archie taught me that.”
