Page 30 of Bratva Prisoner
“Something like that. We should head back.”
The drive home is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I spend most of it trying to figure out how to keep Alyssa occupied and away from whatever Akim has planned for our unwilling guest.
By the time we arrive at Ravenshollow, I’ve decided that the best strategy is distraction. I’ll have Harrison prepare dinner for her in the library, maybe suggest she spend the evening there with her book. Keep her as far away from the east wing as possible.
“Thank you,” she says as we walk toward the front entrance. “For today, I mean. I needed to get out of the house.”
“We should do it again soon.”
“I’d like that.”
The simple admission makes me want to cancel whatever Akim has planned and spend the rest of the day finding new ways to make her smile. But I know that’s not an option. Not with a prisoner just down the hall.
“I have some work to catch up on,” I tell her as we enter the foyer. “Will you be okay entertaining yourself for a few hours?”
“Of course. I’ve got that Tolstoy book to finish.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you at dinner.”
She heads toward the main staircase while I make my way to the back of the house, where Akim is waiting with a black sedan parked near the service entrance. He climbs out of the driver’s seat when he sees me approaching.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Back seat. Unconscious but breathing.”
I peer through the tinted windows at the figure slumped against the leather. Middle-aged, wearing clothes that have seen better days, and tattoos marking his affiliation on his neck like a damn idiot. That kind of nonsense will get you killed in a heartbeat out here.
“Who is he?”
“Jordan Portelli. He’s been running errands for the Kozlovs, but my sources say he was working both sides. Selling information to whoever paid the most.”
“And you think he knows something about our little gift?”
“I think he knows who wanted those bodies found and why. But he’s not going to volunteer the information.”
I look toward the house, where Alyssa is probably settling in with her book, completely unaware that we’re about to torture a man fifty yards from her bedroom.
“East wing,” I remind him. “And keep it quiet.”
“That’s not up to me.”
We drag Portelli’s unconscious body through the service entrance and down a hallway that leads to a section of the house I use for storage. There’s a room back there that’s soundproofed and windowless, originally designed as a wine cellar but repurposed for occasions like this.
Portelli starts to come around as we secure him to a chair in the center of the room. He blinks in confusion for a moment before the reality of his situation sets in.
“Fuck,” he mutters before testing his restraints.
“Good evening, Jordan,” I say, pulling up a chair to sit in front of him. “I hope you’re comfortable, because we’re going to be here for a while.”
“I don’t know who you think I am, but—”
“We know exactly who you are,” Akim interrupts as he produces a file folder from his jacket. “Jordan Portelli, age forty-three, two arrests for assault, one for armed robbery. Currently employed by the Kozlov organization as what they generously call a ‘logistics coordinator.’”
Portelli’s face goes pale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Let me refresh your memory.” I lean forward in my chair. “Three nights ago, someone left three corpses in one of my shipping containers. Two Kozlov soldiers and one Ukrainian. Someone wanted to start a war and pin it on my family.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
