“Which man pulled the trigger?”
The question confuses me. “What?”
“There were four Rourke men on that street. Cassian and three others. Witnesses reported multiple shooters. In the chaos, no one could confirm who actually killed Dmitri.” Viktor leans forward. “But you were close. You saw. So tell me. Which one pulled the trigger?”
Understanding hits like cold water.
They don’t know it was Cassian. They know someone from his crew did it, but they can’t confirm who. They need me to identify the shooter so they can execute the right person.
If I tell them it was Cassian, they’ll kill him.
Make my sons orphans.
Destroy the family we’ve been building.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. It happened so fast. There was shooting and people running and I couldn’t tell who fired what.”
Viktor studies my face. “You’re protecting him.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“We’ll see.” He stands, walks to the door, pauses with his hand on the handle. “You have children, Aurelia. You understand what it means to lose family. My brother lost his only son. His legacy. The boy who was supposed to carry our name forward.” He looks back at me. “We will have justice for Dmitri. One way or another. You can give us the name now and avoid unnecessary pain. Or you can be stubborn and we’ll extract it from you.”
“I don’t know who pulled the trigger.”
“Then you’ll stay here until you remember.”
He leaves. The door clangs shut. A lock turns.
I’m alone.
The silence presses down. My wrists already ache from the rope. My shoulder throbs where I hit the van wall. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the terror clawing at my chest.
The Petrovs want Cassian’s name, and they’re willing to torture me to get it.
I can’t give them what they want. Can’t make my sons fatherless. Can’t destroy what we’ve built. But I don’t know how long I can hold out.
Don’t know what they’ll do when they realize I won’t break easily.
The door opens again. Two different men this time. Younger. One carries a metal pipe. The other has a plastic jug of water. They don’t speak. Just approach with the casual confidence of people who’ve done this before.
The one with the pipe taps it against his palm. Testing the weight.
“Last chance,” he says in accented English. “Tell us who killed Dmitri Petrov.”
“I don’t know.”
He nods to his partner.
The man with the water steps behind me. I hear liquid pouring. Then cold drenches my head, my shoulders, soaking through my shirt in seconds.
The pipe comes down on my thigh. Pain explodes. White-hot and immediate. I bite down hard on my lip to keep from screaming. I taste blood.
“Who killed Dmitri Petrov?”
