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“Thank you,” Lyon said. “Good work.”
The kid relaxed a little. “Last door on the left.”
Lyon hesitated. “George, right?”
The kid nodded.
“Come with us,” Lyon said.
“Me?” The kid looked equal parts shocked and terrified.
“Yes.”
The kid fell into step behind them.
They approached an open doorway, a steel door hanging on its hinges, the handles and lock mechanisms clearly blown off. Two of Oleg’s men flanked the door with their weapons drawn.
“Sergei Vadim is inside,” one of them said as Lyon approached.
“Good work,” Lyon said.
He stepped through the doorway first, Alek falling behind him. Three more of Lyon’s men stood inside, all pointing their guns at Sergei Ivanov, sitting behind an old metal desk.
Several men lay dead on the floor — Sergei’s men, Lyon presumed.
Lyon stopped on the other side of the desk and looked at the man who had marked him with the knife. He’d seemed larger when Lyon had been tied to the chair that had been his prison. Then, Sergei had been amped, his eyes shining with a manic light that said he thought he was invincible.
He looked smaller now, shrunken into the old chair behind the desk, his expensive clothes and the watch that still shone on his wrist inadequate armor for what was to come.
Now, the light in his dark eyes one of fear.
Good. Lyon wanted him to be afraid.
“You know what’s worse than men like your father?” Lyon asked. “Men who take what belongs to someone else? Men who threaten woman and children, who instigate violence for nothing but greed?”
“Fuck you,” Sergei said, his voice shaking.
“I’ll answer for you,” Lyon said calmly. “What’s worse than that kind of man is the kind of man who hides behind him. The kind of man who is too much a coward to make his own way.” He looked at one of the men standing guarding the room. “Where are the weapons you confiscated from this piece of shit?”
One of the men handed Lyon a gun. “We found this on him too.” He reached into this pocket and opened his palm to reveal a knife.
The cuts on Lyon’s chest burned at the sight of it.
He took it, flipping it open and studying it.
The instrument of his torture. The instrument of his revenge.
Sergei must have known what was coming because he made a run for the door, getting all of three feet before one of Lyon’s men shoved him back in the direction of the chair.
He went sprawling, but he jumped up quickly, panic in his eyes.
“Who are you to judge me?” Sergei screamed, his face turning red, sweat dripping from his brow. “You took the Chicago territory. You were nobody. You wouldn’t have been made pakhan at all if you hadn’t married that cunt of a wife.”
“You will not speak of my wife,” Lyon roared. Sergei shrunk back from him, and Lyon inhaled deeply, forcing himself to be calm. His appetite for blood would be sated soon, but he couldn’t have the men thinking he’d lost control. “I executed a decades-long strategy to rule this city. I don’t expect you to understand the difference between that and a violent overthrow, but you will pay for the pain you’ve caused my wife, and for your audacity in daring to threaten her.”
“I’m sorry,” Sergei said quickly. “My father — ”
“Tie him up,” Lyon said, without taking his eyes off Sergei. “And bring me a saw.”
