Pizda. Useless. Fucking useless.
The hammer comes down again and again. Bone crunches. Blood sprays. Eventually, the screaming stops.
I step back, chest heaving. Erik whistles low.
“Well,” he says, “I’d say that’s a wrap on our information-gathering session. Shame we didn’t actually gather any information.”
I wipe blood from my face with the back of my hand. “Dispose of this. I need a fucking drink.”
As I storm out, Erik calls after me, “Give my best to the missus, won’t you? Do try not to track blood on her stripper pole!”
It takes every ounce of willpower not to turn around and beat him to a pulp, too. Instead, I slam the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Wren’s waiting. And we’re back to square fucking one with the Skull Collectors.
Der’mo, this is a complete mess.
28
Wren
Istep out of the bathroom, eyes zeroing in on the burner phone on the nightstand. I grab it, checking for missed calls or messages.
Nothing. Nada. Zip.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tossing the phone back down. It bounces once, mocking me with its silence. This waiting game is driving me up the fucking wall.
What am I even waiting for, anyway? D to call and tell me everything’s peachy keen? That I can skip back to my shithole apartment and pretend last night never happened?
Or maybe he’ll ring up with a cheery “Hey, just checked on your siblings; they’re fan-fucking-tastic!” Like he’s some kind of tattooed, homicidal Mary Poppins.
I spit out, my jaw tight. What the hell’s wrong with me? Since when do I sound like some fucking princess in need of rescue?
Christ on a cracker, how does he know so much about me, anyway? Did I drunk-dial the Russian mob and spill my guts at some point? Fuck, I can’t think straight. My brain feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder.
“Screw it,” I mutter, snatching the phone. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since… Well, I can’t even remember. Time to raid this place for something edible.
I fling the bedroom door open, wincing at the ear-splitting creak.Jesus fuck, that’s loud.D needs to oil this shit before it wakes the whole damn neighborhood. Reminds me of Em and Lenny’s room back home—that door screamed like a banshee every time those little terrors snuck out for a midnight snack.
My eyes catch on the worn edges of the doorframe, paint chipped and wood smooth. Huh. Place looks lived in. Real. Not like those fake-ass perfect houses you see on TV. This joint’s got character; I’ll give it that.
Phone in hand, I peer out cautiously, half-expecting to find a guard or some shit. But there’s nothing but an empty hallway stretching out before me.
I creep down the stairs, my bare feet silent on the polished wood. The house unfolds before me, a stark contrast to the sleek apartment we were in last week.
This place is… cozy. But there’s more work to be done. There’s a wall lined with shelves crammed with toy cars of all shapes and sizes. I snort, picturing D hunched over, arranging his little Hot Wheels.
“Big bad Bratva with his matchbox collection,” I mutter, shaking my head. My fingers trail along a bookshelf, catching dust.
How many fucking houses does this guy need?
But this one feels different. Less like a showpiece and more like… a home. The thought makes my stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
I pad into the kitchen, eyebrows shooting up at the sight. It’s fully kitted out—gleaming appliances, a massive island, the works. I can’t help but laugh.
“What? Did you think the big bad Russian survived on vodka and air?” I chide myself. Still, the image of D in an apron, flipping pancakes, is enough to make me snicker.
The fridge beckons, and I pull it open, curiosity getting the better of me.
