Page 71 of Velvet Chains
Fucking pathetic.
“P-please,” he stammers, his voice thin and reedy. “I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to…”
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, slamming my fist into his jaw. His head snaps back, a spray of blood and spittle hitting the concrete floor.
We’re in the meat locker beneath one of my legitimate businesses. Or at least, legitimate on paper. It’s cold as a bitch in here, our breath clouding in front of us. The insulated walls deaden sound, perfect for the kind of work that needs doing.
Dave moans, his head lolling.
Igor’s got him trussed up like a hog, zip ties biting into his wrists and ankles. He’s slumped on his knees, shaking like a leaf, pants soaked with his own piss.
Weak. He’s always been weak.
A fucking leech, latching onto anyone he thinks can protect him. First the Bratva, then Laura. Using her up until there was nothing left to take.
The thought makes my blood boil. I see red, my throat tightening with rage. I think of her soft skin, her sweet scent. The way she trembled beneath me, all wide eyes and hesitant touches. So goddamn innocent.
And this suka put his filthy hands on her. Tried to break her, the way he breaks everything.
“You!” I snarl, fisting my hand in his hair, wrenching his head back. “How dare you come to my wedding to terrify my wife, mudak?”
He cringes, his eyes rolling wildly. “I didn’t… I wasn’t… I was just trying to get what’s owed me, that’s all. The bitch, she hid it, left me with noth—”
I don’t let him finish.
My fist connects with his cheek, the crunch of bone satisfying beneath my knuckles.
“Owed you? And you’ve got the nerve to call my wife a bitch?” I hiss, a harsh, grating sound. “You’re a fucking worm, Dave. A parasite. You don’t deserve shit.” Without waiting for a response, I drive my fist into Dave’s gut, the impact sharp. He doubles over, gasping and choking for air, his face contorted in pain.
Behind me, Misha chuckles darkly. “Man’s got a point, suka. You been sticking your dick in all the wrong holes. You’re way over your head in a game you can’t even begin to comprehend.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Dave sobs. Thick ropes of snot and blood run down his face, mingling with the tears. “Please, I’m sorry, I fucked up. I know I fucked up. Just… just gimme a chance, man. I can make it right; I swear it on my mother. I’ll do anything you want.”
“Anything?” I raise a brow, my tone deceptively mild. “Like maybe part with a few fingers?”
I nod to Igor, who steps forward with a pair of bolt cutters. Dave’s eyes go wide, his face draining of color.
“No, wait, please—”
I crouch down, getting right in his face. His breath is rank, stale beer, and day-old vomit. It makes my stomach turn.
“You come into my house,” I say softly, “you steal from me. You put your hands on what’s mine. And you think you can, what? Apologize? Make it right?”
He shakes his head frantically, snot bubbles popping. “No, no, I didn’t… I wouldn’t… boss, please, you gotta believe me.”
“I don’t gotta do shit,” I spit. “Except maybe cut out your tongue for all the fucking lies it’s telling.”
His eyes bulge, his mouth gaping like a landed fish. A hysterical giggle escapes him, high-pitched and unhinged.
“Please,” he whispers, “please, don’t… I’ll do anything, I swear it. Anything you want.”
“You keep saying that,” Misha drawls, picking at his nails with a switchblade. “Anything. Like you got anything worth offering.”
He’s right. Dave’s got nothing. No skills, no backbone, no fucking sense. He’s a weasel, a bottom-feeder. The kind of guy who’d sell his own mother for a quick buck and a pat on the head.
But he did have Laura. For a little while, at least.
The thought makes my chest tighten, a strange pressure building behind my ribs.
