Page 65 of Bought By Santa

“You can let the three in now,” I say, eyeing Greta as she joins us, placing bottles of alcohol on the table, before getting the glasses from the corner cupboard. “Thank you.” I give her a curt nod.

As soon as they’re both gone, I crouch down in front of the man. He seems to be so far gone in his pain that he barely registers he isn’t alone anymore. I run a finger down his face, making him flinch as I pull the gag out.

He lets out another pitiful moan. “P-please l-let me g-go.”

His words are boringly predictable, so I shove the gag back into his mouth. Then I stand up and kick at his broken leg, which causes him to howl in pain. “You won’t find any sympathy from me,” I say coldly.

I sit down at the end of the table, taking my spot just as Marco returns with our guests. Each of them dip their head in a show of respect before taking their seats. The room is dimly lit, casting long shadows over the faces around me—men who hold power in their respective territories, yet all of them answer to me.

Across the table, the crime lords who answer to me sit with a mixture of tension and respect. Dominic, the leader of the East Side operations, wears a patch to hide the eye he lost. It’s a reminder of a past betrayal that he handled with swift, brutal efficiency. His good eye darts around the room, always calculating, always watching.

Next to him is Lee, a man who built his empire with a mix of charm and fear. His suits are always impeccable, his manners flawless, but there’s a coldness to him that makes even the hardest men wary. He smiles easily, but it never reaches his eyes.

And then there’s Sergei, the Russian who caught the spy, presumably sent by one of his brethren. He’s newer to this circle, but he’s already proven his worth. His presence is like ice—calm, deliberate, and utterly ruthless.

I tell Marco to sit opposite me, at the other end of the table, so when Dad arrives, he tries to take the seat to my right. “No,” I bark. “That’s for Jack.” As if on cue, my brother walks in, smirking as he shuffles into the chair I’ve reserved for him.

There’s only one spot left, and it’s not one of any importance which is exactly why I want Dad to sit there. It’s also why he’s not happy about it. “Surely—”

I interrupt him. “Just sit down so we can get started.”

The scowl he sends my way is the same one that made me cower when I was growing up, but now it doesn’t do a damn thing to me. That’s not true, it amuses me.

I let the silence stretch for a moment, letting them feel the weight of it. This room, this table, is mine. They know it, and I don’t need to remind them. The city outside is ours to control, but only if we stay in line—myline.

I lean forward, breaking the silence. “Let’s get to business.”

“Who is he?” Lee’s voice is gravel mixed with silk, referring to the bound figure slumped against the wall.

Sergei leans forward in his chair, going straight for the vodka. “He’s the reason we’re here,” he replies while filling his glass to the brim.

“A Russian spy,” I state, my voice carrying the weight of my authority. “He was found lurking in our territory. Thanks to Sergei’s quick thinking, we managed to get him before he could disappear.”

Jack shifts in his seat, a predator ready to pounce. “What do we know? Has he talked?”

“Only enough to confirm his purpose.” I tilt my head toward the man who dares not move, who knows any breath could be his last.

“He sang for me,” Marco chuckles coldly. “And it wasn’t pretty.”

This earns a round of laughter from everyone at the table.

“Is that so?” Dominic laughs boisterously. “That might be the gravest offense of all.”

Marco leans forward, his fingers steepled before him. “May I speak?” Even though he already has, I appreciate the question and I nod. “He confirmed he was sent here to spy on us, but he never told me exactly what he learned, how long he’s been in your territory, or who sent him.”

Lee growls. “Kill him.”

Dominic and Sergei quickly rumble their agreements.

I drum my fingers against the table, considering the options. Just because there’s only one outcome doesn’t mean there’s only one way to get there. “Sergei.” He slants his head in my direction as I say his name. “Is it odd to you that he won’t tell us who sent him?” Although I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, I have to ask.

“Not at all,” he says, confirming my suspicion. “If he speaks—”

“But he’ll die either way. So why not save himself the added pain?” Jack asks.

“As I was trying to say,” Sergei continues. “If he speaks his family will more than likely suffer. There’s a good chance they’ll be left unharmed, hell, maybe even receive some kind of payment, if he doesn’t sing like a canary.”

I cup my cheek, feeling the scar beneath my thumb. There’s no glorifying tale linked to the injury. I was betrayed after putting my trust in the wrong people, something I’ll never do again.

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