I’m trembling, half-sobbing, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t let me drift into that black panic clawing at my mind. He holds me there, pinned to reality by the brutal certainty in his voice.
‘‘They can burn for all I care,’’ he snarls, voice rough with something savage, something terrifyingly beautiful. ‘‘The Gambinos. The Bratva. The whole goddamn world. You stay with me.Right here. Right fucking now, for the rest of my damned existence.’’
Chapter 61
The Silence of a Severed Tongue
Dominik
Russia, Vyborg St. Petersburg, November 22nd
They dragged me out of the car as soon as we crossed the river.
Not even city anymore, just open wasteland, broken concrete, rusted chain-link fences yawning like broken teeth in the dark. The air stank of oil, iron, old death, thick enough to choke on. Somewhere behind the cracked warehouses, the river whispered and hissed against the banks like it was hungry.
They didn’t even bother pretending this was business. Four of them, faceless, masked, gloves tight. Hands bruised into my arms, into my ribs. I fought them anyway. Elbows, knees, fists—wild, vicious, because it was the only thing left to do.
A bat caught me in the back of the knees. I dropped. Hard. Gravel tore into my palms. The breath left my lungs in a wet gasp, and then the boots started. Rib, jaw, spine. I tasted blood first. Then gravel. Then nothing but heat, rage, and the buzzing between my ears.
But I stayed quiet.
And that? That made them angrier.
Good.
They ripped the bag off my head, and the floodlights seared into my skull. For a second, all I could see were shapes, shadowsagainst the raw glare. Then their faces came into focus: not soldiers. Not capos. Outsourced muscle. Paid trash. Hitmen who didn’t care about honor, only the paycheck at the end of the night.
I spat blood at their boots and smiled through the red.
‘‘Hope you took out life insurance,’’ I rasped.
The steel-toed kick to my ribs almost made me black out, but I kept laughing, low and feral. The taste of blood was warm and real and human. It meant I was still alive. It meant they hadn’t broken me yet.
They didn’t ask questions. They weren’t here for answers.
They were here for punishment.
Because a month ago, I shattered the spine of one of their golden boys, aGambinolieutenant, when he tried to put a knife in my brother’s back. Aslanov had barely stumbled away from that night breathing. I made sure they remembered the price.
Now? They were here to collect.
Not with a bullet. That would be mercy.
No. They wanted something slower. Something that would linger.
One of them stepped forward. Rocco ‘Two Cuts’ Benevetto. I knew the name. I knew the stories.
He didn’t kill you.
Hecarvedyou.
Rocco knelt in front of me like we were old friends meeting over drinks. Smiled a small, sweet smile. And from inside his coat, he pulled out something that gleamed.
A straight razor.
Sharp enough to split a thought in half.
‘‘You’re a mouthy little fuck, aren’t you,’’ Rocco murmured, almost affectionate. His breath reeked of cheap wine and decay. ‘‘We’re going to fix that.’’
