Page 36 of Twisted Prince
Rolling Val onto his stomach, I tie his hands securely, gag him, then run my fingers under his collar to retrieve my bug. “The mudak has been trading information to the Zhivoder,” I state flatly.
No one says a word on the drive, and when Lev hops out to open the garage door into the warehouse, Denka pulls the van straight inside. It takes little communication to get Val tied to a chair beneath one of the warehouse’s bright hanging lights.
As Pyotr slaps Val’s cheek, roughly bringing him back to consciousness, I pull out the bag of tools I packed for the occasion.
“Pyotr…” Val mutters, his eyes focusing on our pakhan as the color starts to drain from his face. “What’s going on?” Glancing around himself, Val jerks against his restraints as panic takes hold.
“Don’t play dumb, Val,” Pyotr says calmly, though his eyes burn with intense hatred. “We both know it took a lot more intelligence than that to pull off the stunt you did.”
“Stunt?” Val eyes me nervously, his chest rising and falling as I study the pruning shears, snapping them open and closed several times as if to test that they’re functioning properly.
Then, I separate his pinky finger from the arm of his chair and place it between the blades.
“Okay! Okay! I’ve been passing information to the Zhivoder!” he shouts, losing his bravado completely.
“For how long?” Pyotr asks flatly.
“Fuck, I don’t know. Years?” Val’s tone is thick with exasperation, like the length of time hardly matters.
And as the shears snick closed, he releases a bloodcurdling scream.
“Were you the one who set the trap on Mikhail’s estate? Did you give Maks bad information that wound up killing Efrem and half our fucking men?” Pyotr presses as Val flails frantically against his restraints.
The question makes him still, and he eyes my pakhan with fresh horror as he realizes where this interrogation is heading. A trickle of sweat runs down his temple—no doubt a combination of fear and agony.
With cool detachment, I separate his ring finger and place it between the shear blades. This time, I don’t bother waiting.
“Fuck, fuck! Yes!” Val howls, thrashing in his chair as his severed finger rolls across the ground.
“If I were you, I’d start answering faster,” I suggest before placing his middle finger between the blades.
“Please, I’ll tell you anything,” Val begs, slumping in his chair as he breaks down and starts to sob.
“The girls we took from Mikhail, the ones we swore to protect, were you part of the plot to kidnap them?” I ask, cutting into the conversation.
It’s the only question I need to know the answer to because I’ve been plagued by my failure to protect those girls three years ago. They’ve all flown the nest now, moved on with their lives. They’re happy. But I can’t be because the one chance I might have had to find happiness vanished along with Mel. All I have now are years of bitterness and resentment that I fully intend to take out on Val, regardless of who’s to blame.
Confusion flits across Val’s face, as if he forgot they almost got sold into slavery. Then he swallows hard, like he’s more afraid to answer my question than not.
“Too long.” I bring the shears closed a third time, lopping off his middle finger.
Val howls through clenched teeth, his arms bulging as he tries to ride out the pain now that he’s getting used to it. And when he looks at me, the snarl on his face is brimming with hatred.
“Yes. Alright? Is that what you want to hear? I knew you had a thing for Mel. I knew you kept them under close surveillance, so it would take planning to keep you away. I suggested the hit on Imperia to distract you.”
I nod, setting aside the shears with a nonchalance I don’t feel. Then, I pick up a carving knife and remove his ear with one clean stroke. The scream that rips from Val this time is barely human. And as he jerks and strains against his bindings, a deep sense of satisfaction curls my lips.
Lev and Denka stand stoically behind the chair, watching without a word.
And when I look at Pyotr, he gives me a subtle nod before taking charge again. Drawing his gun, he places the barrel on his old bodyguard’s kneecap and waits until Val calms down. Ragged breaths burst from our bloody prisoner. A mad glint reflects in his eye as he peers up at Pyotr.
Crimson liquid coats his lips. He must have bit his tongue hard enough to bleed. I can hardly blame him. Losing an ear is supposed to be an excruciating experience.
“Why, Val?” Pyotr asks calmly. “Why did you betray your Bratva? Your brothers? Your family?”
Val spits, coating the tip of my pakhan’s fine Italian leather shoes—no doubt a gift from his wife, Silvia. A muscle tics in Pyotr’s cheek, but he keeps his cool.
“Family?” Val hisses incredulously. “That bitch you call mother ruined the Veles a long time ago. She threw us into a war she knew we couldn’t win. And she didn’t care who died along the way. My brother—my blood and bone brother—died so your mother could have vengeance for her husband’s death. And was it worth it? This clan doesn’t even know what it’s fighting for anymore.”
