Cameron…
“Tell me.”
After two days of nothing from Morana’s room, I’m reduced to daily reports from Miss Kevin regarding my wife’s doings. Every part of me wants to kick open her door and force her to listen to me. Except for my last clump of common sense, which is telling me that to do that will be to lose her forever.
Miss Kevin folds her hands in front of her. “Her bedroom door was replaced yesterday. Today, she finally had breakfast. She also asked me for a litter box.”
“A litter box? Why the hell- shite. She’s found Bad Cat, hasn’t she? Did you tell her that mangy thing is not an indoor pet?”
“No,” she says politely, “I have said no such thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because I believe she will not open her door again if I attempt to challenge her on small issues.”
“So, she has the cat and she ate breakfast,” I rub my eyes. “Anything else?”
“Madame MacTavish also requested a tin of salmon.”
“This is all very fascinating,” I say impatiently. “Anything else? How does she look?”
“She won’t look at me,” Miss Kevin sounds a bit sad. “But your wife looks exactly the way she did when she came home that night from the club, if that is of any use.”
It’s as if she wants to make me feel worse.
“Thank you for the report.”
We’ve moved that rat bastard Artim around a couple of times to discourage any thought of a rescue attempt by Anatoly Ivanov, but I suspect there won’t be one. Thanks to our attacks on his trucking company that’s used to transport human souls for the Stepanov Bratva, he’s got bigger issues.
“Hey, motherfucker. Good mornin’!”
I kick the side of Artim’s cot, knocking him off and onto the floor.
“You look like shite, my friend. Late night?”
He curls up on the concrete floor, moaning. “Just kill me and get it over with.”
“Well, now you’re making me look like a bad host,” I say, nudging him over on his back with the toe of my boot. I pull up a chair and seat myself. “Let’s have a chat about your bratva’s interests in St. Petersburg. You’re not supposed to be messing about in the Morozov and Turgenev territory, are ya’ now?”
After another hour with my boots and fists and the occasional lashing of a heavy length of chain, I have what I need from him. It all confirms what Nolan O’Rourke told us.
“I’d give you a long farewell speech, but ya’ deserve nothing,” I say, pulling out my Glock. His eyes are both nearly swollen shut, so I’m not sure if he sees it. But he twitches when I release the safety. “If I were feelin’ all sentimental about it, I’d burn you alive, the way you did Ferr. You’re not worth the trouble. So, for Ferr. And for Morana.”
I shoot him.
Watching his bloodied body go slack, I ponder that anyone who says revenge is a dish best served cold has never shot an arsehole like this in the face.
Morana…
The sun rises and sets again, and I don’t want to leave the chair by my window. Bad Cat seems all right about staying in my room with me, so we watch people go back and forth, guards making their rounds, gardeners, and occasionally, Miss Kevin who will look up at my windows, shielding her eyes from the sun.
I can’t seem to care.
Picking apart all the sticky strands of my humiliation, fury, and disillusionment feels like too much work, so I let them wrap around me, tighter and tighter until I sit, numb in my cocoon.
Eventually, I will be forced to talk to fucking Cameron. I’ll ask him how much longer I’ll have to stay here, when will my usefulness in his revenge plans end. When can I leave? But for now, I look out the window and pet the heavy warmth of Bad Cat on my lap.
Two days later…
