Nick smiles. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. And very, very cooperative.”
My fingers flex against the restraints. He’s lying. Or bluffing. Or maybe, maybe he’s not.
Nick crouches in front of me, elbows resting on his knees. His dark eyes search my face, waiting for a crack, a flicker of doubt.
“I told you, Aslanov.” His voice is softer now, but no less dangerous. “I don’t come for the top first. I don’t aim for the head. I start at the feet, break the foundation, watch the whole thing crumble from the inside out.”
I exhale slowly. “And you think you’ve done that?”
Nick tilts his head. “I know I have.”
He straightens again, stepping back just enough to pull something else from his pocket.
A phone.
I don’t recognize it, but the moment he unlocks the screen and turns it toward me, my blood runs cold.
A photo.
A man, bound to a chair much like this one. Blood streaking his face, his head hanging at an unnatural angle. His body slack, lifeless.
Vasiliev.
Nick watches me, gauging my reaction. “See, here’s the thing about men like him. They think they can be loyal to ghosts. To an empire that no longer protects them.” He pockets the phone again, expression unreadable. “But fear is a powerful motivator. And when fear isn’t enough—” he shrugs, “—I make examples.”
A slow, insidious rage coils in my chest.
Nick leans in again, his voice a murmur now. “How long, do you think? Before the rest of them realize no one’s coming for them? Before they stop fearing you and start fearing me?”
My fingers clench into fists, the metal cuffs biting into my skin.
Nick straightens, satisfied with my silence. “Brighton Beach is slipping through your fingers, Aslanov. Give me something worth my time, or I’ll burn through every last one of your men until there’s nothing left. I want a new target.”
I hiss through gritted teeth, the words slipping out in a guttural snarl. ‘‘Ty ubludok.’’You bastard.My voice is low, raw, born from a place of pure, seething hate. The cuffs rattle as I tighten my grip into fists, the metal digging into my skin, and I glare at Nick with every ounce of defiance I have left.
Nick pauses, his eyes narrowing, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile, a predator smelling blood. He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear.
“You think that kind of language is going to save her?” His voice is thick with mocking satisfaction, but there’s something else in it, something colder. ‘‘I could make her scream your name while she’ll beg for mercy. I could make her—’’
“Don’t.” The word escapes before I can stop it, and my heart thunders in my chest. But as I meet his gaze there is somethingthere.
I notice it.
It’s fleeting, but it’s there. A hesitation. A sliver of doubt.
I seize it, a different emotion. He notices that I do.
He calls over one of the guards, his voice sharp and commanding. “Bring him,” he orders. The guard doesn’t hesitate, stepping forward and moving to the side where a trolley sits, loaded with tools I haven’t seen before.
I know what’s coming. I’ve been here before, countless times, each round of pain a variation of the same torture—blows, burns, broken bones.
“Let’s try something new,” Nick murmurs.
The guard approaches with a cold, clinical look in his eyes. He places the trolley beside me, each tool neatly arranged, but it’s the salt that catches my attention. The jagged white crystals gleam under the harsh light, each one promising a fresh layer of agony.
Nick watches closely, his eyes cold but full of anticipation. “You’re not going to last much longer without answering, Aslanov,” he murmurs. “I want another opening into the Bratva. Fast. And if you don’t, I’ll make sure the salt burns so deep you’ll never forget it. You’ll beg for anything to stop it. Besides I enjoy torturing you too much.”
I grit my teeth, every inch of me trembling as the guard begins to work. He presses the salt directly into the fresh wound along my side, where they’d reopened it earlier. The sting is immediate and relentless, the salt cutting deeper into the exposed flesh. My muscles spasm involuntarily as the pain slices through my body. But I don’t cry out.
