“You know who,” he mutters.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Zakharov,” he spits. “But you already knew that, didn't you?”
“What did you want with Gela Jones?”
The man clamps his mouth shut.
I sigh and take the pliers from Leonid. “You know, I've been having a really stressful week. My new wife is... adjusting. You and your friends caused me a lot of trouble. I'm not in a patient mood.”
I grab his hand and position the pliers over his fingernail. “Why were you harassing Gela Jones, and which Zakharov send you?”
His eyes flicker between my face and the pliers. “Anton,” he finally whispers. “Anton Zakharov.”
I exchange a look with Trifon. Ivan is the eldest son of the Zakharovs, notoriously brutal, even by their standards.
“Why her?” I demand. “Why Gela's business?”
“I don't know all the details,” he insists. “We were just told to scare her, get her financials, make her cooperate.”
I press the pliers harder. “Not good enough.”
“Something about her funding!” he screams. “Her startup was funded by one of Anton's shell companies. Z Ventures.”
This is new information, and it makes my blood run cold. The Zakharovs funded Gela's business? Why?
“Why would Anton Zakharov fund an American's marketing startup?” Leonid asks, voicing my thoughts.
“Money laundering,” the man gasps. “They use legitimate businesses to clean their cash. Hers was perfect—small enough to control, but growing fast enough to move significant amounts.”
What he says confirms the suspicions I had already, but never in a million years did I think her investors were the Zakharovs themselves. I think back to how proud Gela was of her company's rapid growth. All this time, she had no idea she was being taken advantage of.
“And now?” I press. “What were your orders that day at her office?”
“Scare her into compliance. If she refused, we were supposed to...” He trails off.
“Supposed to what?” I growl, tightening the pliers.
“Kill her,” he hisses. “Make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”
The rage that surges through me is so intense I can barely see straight. I yank with the pliers, and his scream echoes off the walls. The fingernail comes clean off, blood pooling in its place.
Before I can ask my next question, a loud gasp comes from the doorway. I turn to see Gela standing there, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with horror as she takes in the scene: the bloodied man tied to a chair, the pliers in my hand, the blood on the floor.
“Gela,” I start, taking a step toward her.
She backs away, shaking her head. “No. No, no, no.”
“I can explain,” I say, though I have no idea how to explain this.
“I…” She looks terrified as her eyes meet mine, then go to the man behind her. “I’m so sorry. I was just looking for the bathroom. I…I have to go…”
“Gela, please.” I set down the pliers to move toward her, but she takes a step back. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”
Gela pales, her knees wobbling as she backs away from me and hits the wall in the hallway, staring at me like I’m the monster. She looks so damn terrified, more than she did when I saved her from the Zakharovs.
“Valentin,” Leonid says quietly behind me, “take your wife back home.”
