I pull out one of my knives, a sharp stiletto that looks more like an icepick. "You know, in order to tell us, you really don't need your eyeballs."
If anything, his laughing increases so much that he has to wipe tears from my targeted area. "Ah, little girl. Even if you have the guts to follow through, you should know thata) my pain tolerance is exceptional,b) my stubbornness even more so—and to be honest, leaving you all in the dark will be much more fun—c) You can't frighten a man who's already decided he's dead, andd) there aren't that many nerves in the eye; it's the psychological effect, which, as I already explained withc,is nonexistent."
I almost admire the old goat. Almost. Now he just presented me with a challenge. With a quick swipe of my leg, I move him down on the ground, the air rushes outof him, and for a moment, he's speechless. Then I drive the knife into one of his balls, and he begins howling. I stand up.
"You're right, there are definitely more nerve endings in your balls than your eyes."
Stephano and Sasha wouldn't be men if they didn't wince, but only for a fraction of a second. One of the soldiers reaches for his balls with a pained expression on his face. When Silvestre regains his composure, he glares at me with the utmost hate in his eyes. He'd love nothing more than to string me up and have me at his mercy.
"Up," I command at the soldiers who don't waste a second to comply and string Silvestre to the ceiling the same way he's probably done to countless others, including Raf.
He's still glaring at me.
"For the record, I'm Oksana Conti, née Arsenyev, also known as Metelitsa. You want to explore the human nerve endings with me and your level of pain tolerance?"
Recognition flickers over Silvestre's features. He laughs again, not as vigorously as before, but it's still strong. Stephano sees what I see. The man will take way too much pride and joy out of being worked over by me. He steps forward.
"As much as I love watching you at work, Tempesta di Sangue, let's not drag this out. We still have Aurelio. Let's just wait."
Raf has been gone longer than I expected. Long enough for Silvestre to start believing in the lie that time tells men like him, that maybe the worst is over. That maybe surviving the first round means there won’t be a second.
The door opens. Raf doesn’t shove Aurelio inside. He walks him in.
That alone tells me everything.
Aurelio Valverde looks nothing like the monster he’s been painted as in my head. No blood. No visible injuries. The expensive shirt is still buttoned. Hair still neat.
His eyes flick once around the room, cataloging exits that no longer matter, then fall on his father. The sound thatleaves him isn’t a word. It’s a sharp inhale, surprise first, then calculation. Relief. Good. He still thinks this is a negotiation.
Raf shuts the door behind them and leans back against it, casual as a maître d’. "Gentlemen," he says mildly. "Family reunion."
Silvestre snarls. "What the fuck is this?"
"A choice," Raf replies. He steps forward and places a hand on Aurelio’s shoulder, neither rough nor kind. Possessive. "I brought you to your father."
Aurelio stiffens. "You have no idea what you’re doing."
Raf smiles. It’s thin. Precise. "I do."
He gestures between them. "Here’s how this works. Whoever talks first—lives."
Silvestre laughs, wild and disbelieving. "You think I’d trust you?"
"I don’t care what you trust," Raf responds evenly. "I care who breaks first."
Silvestre turns slowly toward his son. His voice drops, controlled. "Aurelio. Don’t say a word."
That’s the wrong thing to say. I watch it land. The years between them. The hierarchy. The truth that Silvestre has always expected his son to bleed quietly while he stayed clean. Aurelio's jaw tightens. His eyes flick to me. To Stephano. To the knives. To the blood already drying on the floor.
Raf tilts his head. "Clock’s ticking."
I can't help it; this is the fun part, so I chime in, "Tick tock."
Raf steps back into the light like he owns it. He doesn’t look up at Silvestre hanging from the ceiling; he looks at the chain, the hooks, the math of pain.
Silvestre swings slightly, wrists bound above his head, ankles not touching the floor. Blood runs in thin lines down his forearms and drips, slow and patient, onto the concrete. He lifts his chin anyway. Old-school Don posture. John Wayne with a cartel budget.
"Tick all you want," Silvestre says, voice rough but steady. "You still don’t know what you’re doing."
