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The house is silent. With a growl, I head toward Petrov’s office. I find him inside on the phone, talking to someone in a hurry. He looks up at me and pauses.
“Antonio? What a pleasant surprise.” He stands up with a smile on his face. Maybe he doesn’t know. “What are you doing here? And how did you get inside?”
“Petrov, I know the truth. You married me to Nina so you could get her to kill me. All for that fucking bastard, Franco.” I shove everything off his desk. Petrov doesn’t even look fazed. “Why him? What is it about my uncle that makes people want to work for him?”
The smile slips from Petrov’s face. There’s no more pretending. He must have known. A man like Petrov knows everything in this world. “Because Franco has the numbers, and you don’t. Where the numbers are, the money goes. Simple as that.”
I cock my gun, pointing it at him. Killian stands behind me for support. “So, it’s all just about money for you, is it?”
The laugh that escapes Petrov is cold and piercing. “When is life not about money, little boy? Everything is about money. You only wanted to work with me because I could offer you money. How are we any different?”
“The difference between you and me,” I say in a quiet voice, “is I don’t pimp out my family members to do my dirty work. If you and Franco wanted me dead, you should have done it the way any man would. With his bare hands.”
For a second, a glint of fear passes Petrov’s face, but then his normal confident smirk settles over him, and he’s back to being Petrov, the man with all the money. “So, that’s it, then. You’re here to kill me?” He buttons his suit jacket. “I’d expect nothing else from Antonio Moretti.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s baiting you,” Killian says from behind me. “Don’t listen to him. Let’s just get on with this.”
“Yes,” Petrov says. “Do get on with it, Antonio. Listen to your little Irish friend.”
“Wow, I’ve never heard anyone use the word Irish as an insult before,” Killian comments. “That’s a new low for me.”
I keep my gun trained on Petrov’s face. One slip of my finger, and he’s dead.
But I don’t want that. I need him.
I lower my weapon. “Come with us.” I walk out of the office, not looking back to see if Petrov follows. I expect him to.
“Come on,” Killian says, waving his gun at Petrov.
Reluctantly, Petrov follows us into the living room. “What is this? A game? I’m too old for games, boys.”
“This is no game,” I growl, punching him in his stomach. Petrov grunts and falls to his knees. “See, I don’t want you dead. Not yet, at least.” I grip his hair and draw his head back, forcing him to look in my eyes. “You’re going to call Franco and have him come meet us here. You’re not going to give him any sort of code you’re in danger. You’re going to do this, and I’m going to kill Franco, and I’ll consider letting you live.”
Petrov chuckles darkly, even though it’s strained. “That wouldn’t be wise. Letting me live. You still have a lot of growing up to do, Antonio.”
I wrench his head back harder, making him grunt. “Fine, then. I’ll kill you. But I’ll make your death quick if you help me. How does that sound. Better? More like something my uncle would do?”
“You’re nothing like your uncle.”
“I know.” It’s clear Petrov meant his words to be an insult. “And I’m fucking glad I’m nothing like Franco. Now, you’re going to help me.”
“No.”
“What?” I tighten my grip.
“Either kill me now or later, but I’m not helping you. In fact, I was just on the phone with Franco, and he knows you’re onto to him, which means you’ll never get close to him again. You’re out of luck, Antonio. You have no more options. Franco won. I won. So, kill me. Get it over with or draw it out. I don’t care. Either way, you won’t win.”
I glare at Petrov, my hand gripping his hair is shaking. I could kill him, but I don’t want to. I want Petrov to hurt. “One way or another,” I whisper into his ear, “I’m going to make you scream tonight.”
I shove Petrov to the ground and start kicking him in the stomach. Petrov groans in pain but not once does he scream. So, I decide to kick him in the face. The sound of his nose breaking is like music to my ears. But still, he doesn’t scream.
“You fucking traitor!” I shout, raining hits down on him. Killian watches without saying a word. “You. Will. Scream. For. Me.” Every word is accentuated with a hit.
And yet, still no scream.
Footsteps come running down the hallway. I don’t even look at who it is. I’m too focused on hurting Petrov. By now, Petrov’s face is swollen and covered in blood. But he’s awake, which means he can still scream.
