Page 31 of Bratva Prisoner
“I think you do. I think you know exactly who planted those bodies and why they thought it was a good idea to drag the Barkov name into their little feud.”
“You’re crazy.”
Akim moves to stand behind Portelli’s chair, and suddenly, the room becomes much more frigid. “My brother asked you a polite question, Jordan. It would be wise to answer it.”
“I told you, I don’t know anything about any bodies.”
“Wrong answer.”
What happens next is brutal but effective. Akim has years of experience extracting information from unwilling subjects, and he applies that knowledge with the detached professionalism of someone who’s done this hundreds of times before.
I watch it all without flinching. This is part of the business, part of protecting my family and our interests. Portelli made his choice when he decided to involve us in whatever game his employers are playing.
After twenty minutes of Akim’s persuasion techniques, Portelli finally breaks.
“It was Moreau!” he gasps, blood running from his nose. “Vincent Moreau hired me to plant the bodies. He wanted to start a war between the Kozlovs and the Ukrainians, let them destroy each other while his people moved in to take over their territory.”
“And framing us?”
“Insurance. If the plan went sideways, you’d take the blame instead of him. Something about you deserving it because you took something that belongs to one of his men.”
Well, shit. Vincent “Viper” Moreau, the pretentious leader of the Serpents who thinks he’s tougher than he actually is, is tying this to me as payback for protecting Alyssa. He’s even dumber than I thought.
“What else?” I demand.
“That’s all I know, I swear. Moreau paid me fifty grand to plant the bodies and disappear. I was supposed to be in Mexico by now.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Plane got delayed. Weather. Then your men found me at the airport.”
The mundane explanation is almost funny under the circumstances. Portelli’s entire plan was derailed by a thunderstorm.
“Who else knows about this?” Akim asks.
“Nobody. Moreau wanted to keep it quiet, minimize the number of people who could connect it back to him.”
I study Portelli’s battered face, noting the way his eyes flit between Akim and me. This is bigger than we thought. Moreau is actively trying to eliminate the competition by turning them against each other and using my family in the process.
“What about—”
The sound of footsteps in the hallway cuts me off mid-sentence. Heavy, rushed footsteps that are moving in our direction.
“Maksim?” Alyssa’s voice calls out, getting closer. “Are you back there? I heard—”
“Down here!” the idiot shouts at the sound.
The door opens before I can react, and she steps into the room just as Akim drives his fist into Portelli’s ribs. The sound of impact ricochets off the walls like a gunshot.
Time stops.
Alyssa stands frozen in the doorway, taking in the scene with horror dawning across her face. Portelli slumped in the chair, blood on his face, Akim standing over him with raised fists. Me, sitting calmly in front of it all like this, is just another Tuesday afternoon.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
“Alyssa, don’t—”
But she’s already backing away from the door, her face white with shock and something that looks disturbingly like fear. Of me. Of what she’s just discovered about the man who’s been protecting her.
