Page 27 of Never Distract a Biker

"Talk," I growl as soon as my men drag him in. He shakes, eyes darting around.

"You have to promise to protect me in this war."

"Not if you have a hand in what happened to Igor Makarov."

"Nnnooo … I … I … don’t," he stammers.

"Then you have my word."

He explains that after I first accosted him, he had gone snooping and found one of the hitmen. The bastard had bragged to someone about involvement, and that’s how word got to him.

"If your words check out, you will be well rewarded," I assure him.

"Offer our guest a room," I say to Lev. "And get me the bastard. If he can’t be found, bring his mother, father, brothers, sisters, girlfriend, boyfriend. Hell, exhume his ancestors and bring them here."

My men nod and, before long, return with the culprit. He tries to put on a brave face, but I can see right through his façade.

"You, my dear friend, will tell me why you and your goons attacked and killed Igor Makarov. My father." His eyes pop wide with fear as I reveal my identity.

Good. Let him stew in fear.

"I don’t know what you are talking about."

"Your fake bravado is quite irritating," I say calmly.

"Here,Pakhan," Lev’s voice cuts through my fury, sharp as the blade he’s handing me.

I nod, pressing my lips into a thin line. I lean close to the man’s ear, my voice low and dangerous. "I do not ask the same question twice."

The hard look on my face must have told him I am dead serious because he begins to spill what he knows. He’s just a lowlycar workshop owner—a man who stumbled into a nightmare far beyond his comprehension. In the past, he’d helped some of his friends disguise stolen cars, petty crimes that seemed insignificant at the time. But on the day Igor was murdered, those same friends brought him their vehicle, demanding he switch the plate number and repaint it with a different color. That same day, they returned, this time, ordering him to remove the fake plates and repaint the car its original color. All of it, he tells me, was done in a frenzied span of few hours. The timeline grates against my patience, and my teeth clench.

"Names and addresses of your friends?" I growl.

"I can give that information to you, but the three of them were killed in a car crash two days ago."

"Someone is covering their tracks," Zasha says calmly.

"What else do you know?"

"Boris, my late friend.” He continues hurriedly. “Said his boss has eyes and connections all over the world and that ‘a damn stripper in New York USA gave Igor away.’"

Upon further questioning, I am shocked at the mention of the familiar name and place far away from here. Someone in DanceCheck strip club had called someone he knows here in Moscow to brag about being in the know about how Igor Makarov was brought down.

"Get him out of here and lock him in the dungeons."

Once he’s dragged out, I turn to Zasha. "We leave for New York now!"

It’s time to get to the root of this investigation. Fury boils in my veins, a firestorm threatening to consume reason itself. I am willing to maim, break, and even kill nine more people without hesitation. Each step I take tightens the noose around their necks, and whoever masterminded this will wish they’d never been born by the time I’m done.

12

Scarlett

The room swims before me, a carousel of pastel walls and sterile smells. I blink rapidly, trying to steady my world as I adjust the pillows behind my mother's frail form. She murmurs something incoherent, lost in a morphine dream, and I force a smile, pushing back the strands of golden hair that stick to my forehead.

I shake my head, dismissing the dizziness as stress. It's the hospital food I’ve been eating, plus a lack of proper sleep. Or maybe just the weight of a world where I'm playing mother to my own. I'm fine. I have to be.

"Hello, Scarlett." The doctor’s voice cuts through the fog in my mind.

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