Page 22 of Devil's Vows
I press the blade deeper and its sharp point pierces into the soft, willing flesh, through the floor of his mouth, stopping him short. Yuri fists Sergei’s hair so he can’t ram his chin into the blade and kill himself before I’m done. He should know better than to drag Milana’s name in here just to cause discord between us, as if she hasn’t suffered enough, caught in the web of this mess. She wasn’t even here during the coup—left months before it on my instruction—and thank fuck for that. Thank fuck, too, that she’s back from Russia.
These fuckers. “For you, women are just collateral damage,” I hiss, twisting the blade a bit. “I want the man from Russia.”
He drags in a shattered breath.
“You can tell me now, or we come back tomorrow. We’ve barely started, as you know.”
He blinks a few times, my words and meaning registering.
“Ch-Chert…Chertnikov,” he manages as blood seeps from his mouth. “Been behind it…from the start… Petrov became too powerful…threatened to…to override his authority in Russia…put you…in your place…his own man your next Pakhan?—”
And we know who that was meant to be.
I quietly inhale a slow breath.Finally.
“And what does Chertnikov know about what happened here? How it ended?”
Sergei swallows, more blood that spit. “Dimitri…he still hopes…alive…”
Good. Nothing like using uncertainty as leverage. Nobody saw Dimitri’s demise. We’ll keep them guessing.
I’m tempted to kill him right there, guthim with my blade from chin to chest, but he’s talking now. I pluck my blade out. Check the time.
Igor, standing on standby, watching, hands me a cloth.
“See if he talks some more now that he’s got going,” I say to Yuri, nodding at Igor as I wipe the blood off my blade and flick it back into the sheath.
Yuri nods but doesn’t let go of Sergei’s hair.
“Pakhan,” Igor says, acknowledging he’s now Yuri’s assistant.
“You know what to do when you’re done with him.”
Both nod.
Good. Dog food.
I walk out. I need my fucking beauty sleep and a massive mind shift before I meet my potential bride in the morning.
12
IVAN
Trust these fuckers to come in three-piece suits. Fucking Mafia. They just don’t know how to blend in. I still can’t believe they signed up for this, but I’m no idiot. It isn’t out of the goodness of their charred little hearts that they’re bringing me a peace offering or sacrificing their sister. I bet there’s something in it for them. Wait until I figure out what it is.
I don’t move from where I’m leaning against the railing, watching Katya and Irisha climbing the stairs to the slide and going down on repeat. With faded jeans, a baseball cap, T-shirt, and sneakers, I scream American dad on Sunday brunch duty…and they’re walking straight past me. Yep, that just happened.
I smirk at Yuri where he is sitting on a bench on the other side of the playground, similarly dressed, scrolling his phone but really keeping an eye on things and keeping comms with our backups. This Central Park playground is surrounded by bushy hedges, and signs sayingEvery Adult Must be Accompanied by a Childaretied at appropriate heights to warn off the perverts. It’s the perfect enclosed open space.
The playground is quiet this morning, as planned. I forced Yuri to arrange a small kids-oriented fair to distract the otherkids and their parents about fifty yards away. Some students are getting well paid for doing face painting, balloon animals, magic tricks, and in general entertaining everybody I do not want at my meeting.
This is so in contrast with last night’s business with Sergei that I feel whiplashed. Good. Feeling like this shows there’s some humanity left in me despite everything the Petrov Bratva has gone through. Hopefully, that was the last time I have to slice information out of someone in a long time. I don’t even have a blade on me this morning.
I force my focus on the moment and the task in front of me. It’s a good spot. Nothing can go down here, even if they come in guns blazing. The rest of our security is being equally surreptitious. The last thing I want is for the Scaleras to see how thinly spread we are. Money isn’t the problem—people I trust are, and they have become few and far between.
I turn my head to study the two men who’ve just strolled past. They’re checking things out. Good. One of them is on his phone, and I prick my ears.
“Not sure he’s here yet,” a tall suit says, with broad shoulders and a chest like a wall.
