"Babushka needs me more than you do." His voice cracks slightly. "She's alone, Eva. Recovering from surgery, trying to manage everything by herself. I can't leave her like that."
"But your education. Your future. Everything we've worked for?—"
"Will still be there." He reaches across the desk, taking my hand. "But Babushka won't be. She's seventy-three, Eva. She needs family with her. And you… you have Roman now. You have a new life here. You don't need me anymore."
The words shatter something in my chest. "I'll always need you. You're my brother."
"I know." Tears shine in his eyes. "But right now, Babushka needs me more. I'm going back. My flight leaves tomorrow."
46
ROMAN
The basement reeks of fear and blood, exactly as it should. Four of Abram's soldiers kneel on the concrete floor, hands zip-tied behind their backs, blindfolds covering their eyes. The darkness amplifies everything. Every sound. Every breath. Every moment of anticipation before pain arrives.
I circle them slowly, my footsteps deliberate against the concrete. Let them hear me coming. Let them wonder which one I'll hit next. The psychological warfare is often more effective than the physical violence, though I'm more than willing to employ both.
Lev stands near the steel table, his dark suit somehow still immaculate despite the work we've been doing for the past three hours. His knuckles are bruised, split in places where bone connected with jaw. Mine probably look the same, though I haven't bothered checking.
I stop behind the second man from the left. He's maybe thirty, with the kind of hard face that comes from years in this life. Hisbreathing quickens as he senses my presence, his body tensing in anticipation.
I let the silence stretch. One second. Two. Three.
Then my fist connects with his jaw with enough force to snap his head sideways. The crack echoes through the basement, and he spits blood onto the concrete. The other three flinch at the sound, their blindfolded faces turning toward the noise, trying to determine who just got hit and whether they're next.
"Who ordered the attacks on the Chinese gambling operations?" My voice is low, controlled, the accent thicker than usual. "I want names. Dates. Proof."
Silence. Stubborn, terrified silence.
I nod at Lev, and he moves to the man on the far right. His punch is precise, clinical, aimed at the solar plexus. The soldier doubles over with a wheeze, struggling to breathe through the pain.
"We can do this all night," Lev says, his voice flat and professional. "Or you can talk and make this easier on everyone."
More silence. These men are loyal, I'll give them that. Or more likely, they're more afraid of Abram than they are of us. That needs to change.
I think about Eva upstairs, probably already in bed, her blonde hair spread across my pillows. The image makes something warm bloom in my chest, chasing away some of the cold calculation required for this work. She's waiting for me, and I'm down here, doing what needs to be done to protect her, to protect our future.
The thought hardens my resolve.
I move to the third man, younger than the others, maybe twenty-five. His breathing is rapid, panicked, and I can smell the fear radiating from him. This one will break first.
My fist connects with his kidney, a blow designed to cause maximum pain without permanent damage. He cries out, the sound raw and desperate, and I see the others tense further.
"The Chinese operations," I repeat, my voice dropping to that low register that makes most people step back. "Who gave the orders?"
"I… I don't…" The young one's voice cracks. "Please, I just do what I'm told. I don't know the big picture."
Progress. Fear is making him talk, even if he's not saying anything useful yet.
Lev circles to the first man, the oldest of the group. His punch is brutal, connecting with the jaw hard enough that I hear teeth crack. Blood sprays across the concrete, and the man slumps sideways, barely conscious.
"Wrong answer," Lev says calmly. "Let's try again."
The interrogation continues with methodical efficiency. We work them systematically, varying the timing and targets so they can never predict who's next. The psychological pressure builds with each blow, each question, each moment of terrified anticipation.
My mind drifts to Eva despite my best efforts to stay focused. The way she looked this morning in that green sweater dress, the fabric clinging to her fuller breasts and the curve of her stomach. How her brown eyes darkened with desire when I touched her. The promise in her voice when she said, "Tonight."
Blyat.Even here, even doing this brutal work, I want her. My cock stirs with interest, and I have to adjust myself discreetly.
