Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
It took me two steps to catch up to Kristoff, grab him by the back of his collar, and drag him back to his chair. I slammed his body down, then grabbed his neck and squeezed. His pulse was erratic against my fingers and more blood bubbled from his mouth and nose.
"This is your last chance for a clean death. Tell me what you know, or I am going to kill you slowly. I'll take you apart piece by piece, starting with your fingers, then your toes. We have an iron, and I'll use it to cauterize your wounds, so you won't bleed out. You will not die until I allow it. As far as you are concerned, at this moment I am your god. The breath in your lungs, the blood in your veins, the very life keeping that tiny little brain firing—all exist at my whim. The truth is the only thing that can set you free."
"Damn," Kostya muttered behind me.
"He's pissed," Pavel stage-whispered. "Do you remember what happened last time?"
"Remember? I still have nightmares."
Kristoff tried looking behind me at my brothers, but I tightened my grip on his throat.
"Don't look at them. Look at me. I'm the boss. They answer to me. Tell me what you know."
Kostya was the older brother and would have traditionally been the boss, but the bratva was all about merit. Kostya’s strengths were in the field—on the hunt. Not stuck in a room filled with smoking politicians and former generals hammering out an arms deal. That was my job.
Kristoff was shaking and tears spilled from his swollen eyes, but he said nothing.
"Kostya, get the iron ready."
"Okay, okay," Kristoff cried.
This grown man, a Russian enforcer, was fucking crying and I hadn't even started cutting yet. How the fuck had he made it so long in our ranks? When this was all over, I was going to take a long, hard look at the quality of men working for us.
"Start talking," Pavel said from behind me.
"Solovyov is trying to undermine Gregor. He says that the Ivanovs have gone soft, and they let their women run the empire from their backs."
"Keep going," I said between clenched teeth. This man was going to die a particularly gruesome death.
"He says that if all the Ivanov men can be controlled by their dicks, then they need to go, for the good of everyone. And their wives should be—"
I hit him again across the jaw.
Viktoria was not my wife; he wasn’t talking about her, he was talking about my sister-in-law, and my cousin's wives. Still, I didn’t like what he was implying, and it was Viktoria's face in my mind when I hit him.
And just because I thought Gregor was losing his edge and was distracted did not mean that I would let someone speak like that about my family.
Gregor slipping was an issue, but a family issue that we would handle.
Solovyov wasn't going to use it to weasel his way into our business.
I hit Kristoff again, over and over. Blood sprayed across my face, but I couldn't stop. No, that was a lie. I could stop. I just didn't want to. There was too much frustration, too much pent-up aggression that needed an outlet.
My knuckles pounded into the hard bone of his cheek, his blood staining my skin, until the only thing that could be heard in the room was the wet sound of flesh hitting flesh.
"Well, I don't think we’ll be getting much of anything else out of him," Pavel said with a snort.
I stood and looked down at the face that now resembled ground meat more than a person.
"What are the chances he actually had information we didn't know about?" I asked.
"Slim," Pavel answered. "Solovyov is smart enough to keep his spies in the dark."
"Good. I want this one public. Tell everyone this is what happens when you cross an Ivanov Vor v Zakone. Show them what happens to disloyal dogs."
CHAPTER 16
VIKTORIA
"How dare you," I screamed as I stormed into Artem's penthouse just to find him lounging on a black leather sofa, crystal glass of vodka balanced between his long fingers, the amber glow of the fireplace casting sharp shadows across his face.
His hair was damp, slicked back from his forehead as if he'd just stepped from the shower. He wore ripped jeans that hung low on his hips and a black T-shirt that stretched across the hard planes of his chest, defining every ripple of muscle beneath the fabric.
Damn him.
After class I'd bribed the doorman with some of my returned tuition money to tell me where Artem lived. Imagine my shock when we crossed the bridge into Washington, D.C. and stopped in front of a sleek high-rise barely a stone's throw from the freaking White House.
Of course that was where he would be. The arrogance and audacity of running a mafia empire while in full view of the seat of American government probably amused him to no end.