Page 43 of The Cute Psycho

"I trust the condition of your lodgings has been to your satisfaction?" I smile at the man currently tied to a chair in the middle of the room. "Wait." I frown. "I forgot you can't talk." I shake my head and in two steps I'm in front of him, taking his gag off and letting him exercise his mouth for a while.

And if he knows what's best for him, he will exercise itright.

"What the hell... Where am I..." he stammers, his eyes wildly assessing the chamber, before settling on me, "And who are you?"

"Mr. Petrovic, I am profoundly offended that you don't know who I am," I drawl, settling on the floor in front of him.

The first round is going to be easy. The next... depending on him.

"How am I supposed to know?" he spits at me.

Shaking my head, I make a tsk sound, gathering the end of my sleeve and folding it up my arm. Holding my hand out for him to see my tattoo, I watch as the entire previous bravado drains from his face.

My reputation, so to speak, is more through word of mouth than solid evidence. I have, after all, retired from the more unsavory part of the business years ago, when I'd realized that my reaction to blood had worsened, making me become too unstable. Instead, I'd taken to polishing a classier image that nonetheless strikes fear in my adversaries.

Although most people don't know what I look like, they do know something—my name and my tattoo that identifies me as the current Pakhan.

Mr. Petrovic should feel honored, indeed, that I am personally tending to him, since my forays into murder or torture are rather limited these days, a fact that I'm deeply mourning, since both are the best cure in satisfying my boredom.

As it stands, even my science experiments have been put on hold, the chances of me ruining the bloodier steps higher than me completing the project.

But him...

I smile just thinking about it.

It's been years since I'd last found a solid lead into the person who'd taken Katya. And I'd only been able to do that by scouring through all of Misha's connections and hidden communications. A lot of the people I'd found had ended up dead, but a few had changed identities over the years, trying to run away.

From me, or from someone else, I can't say.

Case in point, Mr. Petrovic had changed his identity ten times in the last decade, each time choosing a different nationality, and moving to a different part of the country.

I guess he'd thought himself safe with all those security measures. But he hadn't counted on my commitment to finding him.

A few years ago, I'd ended up enhancing a face recognition software that could now take old footage and analyze it for behavioralpatterns and tics. You can hide from the world, but you can't hide from yourself.

And Mr. Petrovic might have changed his name, and his appearance to a degree. But some things never change. Like his slight limp, an old injury to his distal tibia making the connection to the talus quite shaky.

His gait analysis had presented a ninety percent accuracy, and in my desperation, I'd overlooked the ten that were not conclusive.

My software, though, had done its job.

"Now that the introductions are over, let's focus on today's topic, shall we?" I grin at him, opening my little pouch and removing a knife and an apple. "Here's how things are going to go. I am going to ask questions and you are going to answer. If I like your answers, then no pain. If I don't." I wiggle my eyebrows at him, "Well, you shall see."

His head moves around the room, probably searching for a way out.

"We're at a subterranean level. There's no way out, Mr. Petrovic. Not even if you manage to get past me, which, let's face it," I purse my lips, "is not happening. So your best bet is to be as cooperative as possible."

I start peeling the apple, my eyes firmly set on his terrified expression.

"Why don't we start with your connection to Misha," I say, taking a bite from the apple.

I already know that Mr. Petrovic used to act as a broker between the US and Europe, bringing people over with the promise of a job and then selling them further. Which begs the question. Why would he be involved with Misha?

"I don't know who that is," he says, rather too quickly.

"Mr. Petrovic." I sigh, a little bummed it's not going to be as fast as I'd wanted it. "I'm a busy man.Very busy.Think about it, instead of interrogating you for hours, I could be out enjoying the sun, killing a dozen people, and getting my daily dose of vitamin D. Instead, I have to be cooped up inside, with the prospect of killing justoneperson." His shoulders slump, his eyes widening a little.

Good.

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