Page 141 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

The man pales so much that I think he might faint.

But I don’t stick around to see the impact of the details I give him. He is safer with less knowledge, yet it’s important that he understands the gravity of the situation.

This thing is much bigger than thugs fighting thugs.

And it’s about to get a lot worse.

***

I shrug into my blazer when we step out of the car. “I hate those clothes you made me wear.” I shudder.

Liya steps up beside me, observing the posh apartment building just around the corner from the real estate office. “You look cute in a T-shirt.”

I grimace. “Remind me to thoroughly avoid it in the future.”

The lopsided grin on her face grows affectionately. “Of course, my love.”

She extends her hand. The gesture makes me realize how much we’ve endured in the past twenty-four hours. There’s so much more ahead of us, but we’re taking it step by step.

Soon, this nightmare will end.

One way or another.

The key code I stole while scouting the place earlier allows us entry into the lobby. We head toward the stairs and take them four flights up, pausing at a teal-green door to test the knob. It’s locked.

While I pull out my lock-picking kit, Liya scans the hallway. “Seems quiet. Are you sure he’s home?”

“Kostya checked personally by making a staged delivery.”

“Was he wearing a UPS uniform?”

“He pretended to be a fake new neighbor who just moved in.”

She sighs. “Would have been funnier the other way.”

The lock gives, and I twist the knob. The door opens soundlessly. It’s perfect.

Bill Johnston is napping peacefully on the couch when we enter the living room. With the door bolted and Liya blocking the exit, the guy has nowhere to run. I pull out my gun, click off the safety, and point it at his forehead.

The cool metal slowly wakes him up. He blinks, looks confused for a second, and then horror strikes him as he tries to sit up.

“Don’t make a sound.” I push the barrel against his head. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

He gulps while gripping either side of the armchair. He has dusty brown hair, rosy pink skin, and an average build. He looks like any other guy.

“How much did the NYPD give you,” I ponder out loud. “When you reported that squatter to them?”

“I…I don’t know what you…”

The metal of the gun barrel bites deeper into his skin.

He shivers. “I didn’t get anything from anybody. I swear!”

“Bill, I know everything about you.” I give him a devious grin. “I know you grab coffee from that corner shop next to the yoga studio because the window lets you get a good look inside.”

He makes a strained noise. “How do you…?”

“You drive a white Honda Accord. Your parents live in Staten Island. You had a dog, but he died last year.” I glance over my shoulder at Liya. “What was his name? Oh yeah. Kibbles. How fucking original.

---