Page 14 of Last Hand

That’s when Mikhail strikes me. A hard, flat slap across the face that jerks my head to the side.

Still, no scream.

My body jolts.

He hits me again. And again.

My lip splits. My vision blurs.

And finally, I let out a sharp gasp.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There she is.”

I fall to my knees when my vision swims and my ears ring, my body folding under the weight of his fist connecting with my eye and cheek. The pain is sharp and deep. I force my arms around my stomach, protecting the only thing that matters.

He can break my bones. However, I can’t let him touch what he doesn’t know exists.

I spit blood on the floor at his feet. His eyes flicker with something, rage or admiration, I can’t tell.

His hand fists my hair, and I hiss at my hair ripping from my scalp.

“My brother?” he demands. “I know you know what happened to him, do you know?” he demands.

“Who?” I sneer.

“Pensò!”

“No idea, maybe he is visiting Lydia,” I spit at him. He sneers, dragging me toward where the wall extends, making some sort of concrete table. I squirm at the pressure of my hair pulling when he dumps me on the floor, only to grab my hand, forcing my palm flat on the cold surface.

I try to yank back, and he grips my wrist.

I don’t scream. Not when he presses the knife to the ring finger. Not when I feel the cold kiss of the blade.

“You know what a man like Leone does when he sees his wife’s finger in a box?” Mikhail asks, his smile returning. “He remembers exactly how powerless he is. Now I am giving you one last chance to answer before I remove it.”

I go still. “Where is my brother?” he demands, and I laugh. I literally told him a second ago. Only he doesn’t know I was telling the truth. He presses the blade harder, the knife cutting deep and easily through my flesh, and I sputter in the air when I feel the blade hit bone.

He waits, giving me a chance to regain myself. “The same place you’ll be for touching Leone’s wife. Your brother should have kept his hands to himself. I wasn’t joking when I said he was visiting Lydia.” I spit at him.

His jaw tightens. For a second, he looks like he might actually cut it off when he snarls, slamming my face into the concrete bench, blood spurts out of my nose, and my cheek instantly swells like a balloon.

“Still not a scream,” I rasp. “You’ll have to try harder.” Though I know I’m on the verge of passing out, I don’t know how many more knocks to the face and head I can take.

He lifts me by the chin, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“I’m not done,” he says.

Then—the door creaks open.

We both look over at it.

It’s Rebecca.

Her expression is impassive, composed. Only her eyes betray that she is bothered by what she is seeing before her.

“Mikhail. We have a problem.”

He growls, not letting go of me. “I’m in the middle of something.”

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