Page 22 of Thorns of Death
On days such as this one, the docks came in handy for different reasons.
Back to the strung-up Russian hanging like a damn cow carcass five feet off the ground. He was bleeding from multiple knife wounds, which told me it was Kingston who’d been working on him. There was nobody like Kingston when it came to knives.
He knew exactly where to cut so the victim would bleed out, slowly and carefully. The victim could suffer a thousand cuts but he wouldn’t die until Kingston was ready to slice his throat.
“Someone had too much fun,” I muttered, flicking a curious look at Kingston. He leaned against the single column, wearing jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket. There wasn’t a speck of blood on him. He was that efficient.
“He kept speaking Russian,” he said coolly. “Annoying the shit out of me.”
Lykos Costello stood expressionless with his hands in his pockets as he studied the scene. Much like myself, he rarely did the torturing himself anymore. Only when there was a point to be made.
“Seems fair that you strung him up, then.”
Kingston, also known within the Omertà as the Ghost and one of the best killers and trackers we had, wouldn’t give a shit if I agreed or not. Funnily enough, Kingston and I made an alliance years ago. I’d have his back, and he’d have mine. He knew my secret—one of only two men on this planet who did—and I knew his.
I stepped through the cooling pool of blood as I crossed the concrete floor of the warehouse, stopping before the hanging Russian’s head. His clothes hung off him, stained with blood. This was what happened to anyone who fucked with the Thorns of Omertà, and any families that had sworn allegiance to us.
My hand smashed against the Russian’s skull, hitting him so hard he woke up from his unconscious state. His head jerked back as a painful yelp tore from his lips.
“Oh, I’m sorry, brutto figlio di puttana.”Ugly son of a bitch. “Did I wake you up?” A sinister smile curved around my lips.
The Russian’s pupils dilated with terror as his bloodshot eyes darted to me, then behind me to where Kingston stood casually.
I turned to address Kingston. “How long has he been hanging upside down? I’ll be pissed off if he dies on us too soon.”
Kingston shrugged his shoulders. “A minute or two.”
Clearly, he didn’t give a shit if he died on us in the next minute or not. Not that I could blame him. This hate for Sofia Volkov was his life’s sole purpose.
“You ready to talk to us?” I asked thestronzoin front of me.
Before my father’s untimely death, he’d taught me that our most powerful motivators when facing an enemy were fear and love. This guy was a coward, so pain would work just fine in getting information out of him. And if it didn’t, we had a backup plan.
Manuel already had someone chasing it down.
“I don’t know anything,” he whimpered.
“We’ll start easy, then,” I drawled. “Your name.”
“Fedor… Fedor Dostov.”
“Excellent. I didn’t feel like starting this conversation with lies,” I deadpanned. Kingston had secured his name and his whole life story within the first five minutes of his capture. It was amazing how easy digging up people’s information could be these days. All you needed was the digital image of a face.
Well, except when it came to Isla Evans, I thought wryly. Then you kept running into roadblocks.
“Who do you work for?”
“The Pakhan.”
I grabbed him by the hair and tugged on it. “Wrong. She’s not the Pakhan. Wannabe, maybe.”
Fedor shook his head. “She… sh-she is.”
What the fuck was with these men that followed her? What did she have that they found so appealing? It was like a goddamn cult, and she had them all convinced that she was the head of Bratva.
“Illias Konstantin is the Pakhan. Before him, it was his father who had overthrown the old Volkov. Sofia Volkov was never, in any fucking scenario, a Pakhan. Except maybe in her own head.”
Manuel snickered beside me. “Nothing stinks worse than a desperate woman.”
