Page 67 of Taming a Ruthless Heart

Shelby’s stare meets mine as he adjusts his glasses as if mentally preparing himself, a pact forming between us.“I’ll summon our men.”

The room brims with the promise of retribution.The tension in my muscles is coiled and ready to snap.This isn’t just a fight anymore—it’s personal.

And Igor won’t know what hit him.

The warehouse is a forgotten ruin on the outskirts of the city, abandoned long before my father’s empire claimed it.Rust and decay cling to the beams while the acrid scent of mildew mixes with the tang of old oil.Vines twist up the crumbling walls, showcasing the neglect.Silence and shadow fill the structure and the air reeks of old blood and rancid sweat.

A muffled groan breaks the stillness, echoing in the cavernous room.Illya, one of Igor’s Bratva soldiers, is tied to a metal chair, the legs of which screech against the floor as he shifts, testing the unyielding restraints.His head lolls to one side, blood caking the split in his brow and streaking down over his jawline, staining the gag stuffed between his teeth.The fluorescent light above flickers, casting him in flickering shadows that make his pale blue eyes widen with each dark pulse.

I roll my shoulders, each knot of muscle aching with the control I fight to maintain.I flex my fingers, whose knuckles have gone numb from the blows I’ve landed on the motherfucker’s thick skull.I step back, letting the crunch of glass under my boot mark my movements.

Illya shudders.

Good.

“Cut the gag,” I order, devoid of mercy.

Shelby steps up from behind, his face a mask of practiced indifference, the kind that unsettles more than rage ever could.He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before drawing a switchblade from his pocket.The blade catches the weak light as it slices clean through the cloth, freeing the thug’s mouth.

He coughs, sputters, and spits blood onto the floor around his feet.

“P-please,” Illya stammers, voice hoarse, eyes darting wildly as if seeking an unseen savior.“You don’t?—”

I cut him off with a fist to the jaw, the impact sending a jolt up my arm and a satisfying crunch reverberating through the vast warehouse.His head snaps back, eyes rolling before he rights himself, dazed and shaking.

“You don’t get to talk yet,” I growl, leaning in close enough for him to feel the heat of my rage.The coppery scent of his blood mingles with the sour stench of his fear, feeding the beast clawing inside me.I don’t want just answers.I’m sending a message, making him understand the cost of taking what’s mine.

Tommy moves to stand by the metal table where scattered tools wait for his expertise.These implements can easily make a grown man weep.He trails his fingers over a pair of pliers, a blowtorch, but grabs a slender knife.He tests its balance with a practiced flick of his wrist.He remains silent and watchful, the perfectly still predator waiting for me to give him the green light.

“Where is Igor?”I demand, each word clipped and lethal.My voice travels the vast room, echoing back to me like a dark menace.

The Bratva soldier’s eyes dart to my brother, then to the knife in his hand, then back to me.He shakes his head.“I don’t know,” he breathes out.“He’s always moving, changing safe houses?—”

“Wrong answer.”I snap my fingers.

Tommy steps forward without hesitation.He flicks his wrist, making the knife glint under the harsh light when he throws it through the air.The blade plunges into the man’s thigh.His scream slams into me, vibrating against my chest like a second heartbeat.

“Think harder,” I grunt, leaning in until our noses almost touch.His breath comes in ragged pants, eyes wide and glistening with the sheen of tears.Sweat pours from him in rivulets, plastering dark curls to his forehead.I grab a handful of his hair, yanking his head back so he has no choice but to face the fury in my stare.“Or I promise this gets much worse.”

He whimpers, a pathetic sound that grates my ears.But he isn’t talking.Not fast enough.I slam him against the chair and it tilts backward until he lands on the floor.The pain in his eyes deepens when the back of his head bangs on the concrete.For a moment, I think he’s going to break.

Nikolai steps into the light, crouching beside Illya and fisting the other man’s bloodied shirt.“You know who he is, don’t you?”His eyes glint like polished steel as the thug’s expression shifts—recognition mingled with terror.

“Y-yes,” he stutters.“The Ruthless King, that’s what they call Dave Boyle.”

“Exactly.”Nikolai’s lips curl into a dark grin.“So, you know how this will go for you.If you don’t give him the right answers, you’ll bleed to death from multiple holes.”He brings Illya up with him when he stands, and the metal legs of the chair shriek as he does.

“If you tell me the truth, you’ll die quickly.”I complete Nik’s remark.“Now, where’s Igor?”

“In the penthouse in Back Bay,” the man replies through gritted teeth.

I draw the pistol tucked in my waistband and shoot his kneecaps.“Wrong again.”

He wails as blood oozes from his new wounds, mixing with the old ones.His eyes turn glassy from the intense pain he’s experiencing.I don’t bother explaining that we’ve already combed all Igor’s known addresses.I wouldn’t need this piece of shit if we found any other clues.

We have not.

It’s the middle of the fucking morning, and I still have no idea where Alexia and the kids are.

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