Page 17 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"I-Ilya, please," Fyodor wheezes. He’s tied to a heavy steel chair bolted to the concrete floor. His face has turned to a purple, lumpy mess of swollen meat and split skin. "I didn't have a choice. They had my brother. The Russo family... they said they’d skin him."

I don't look up from the table. I’m selecting a pair of heavy, rusted pliers. They aren't clean. The iron is pitted, designed to tear the flesh rather than slice it.

The basement smells of lime and concrete rot. It’s a dry, cold smell that clings to the back of my throat.

"Everyone has a choice, Fyodor. You could have come to me to protect your brother," I say, my voice flat. "You chose to betray me. Now you both die. It’s simple math."

"I gave them nothing!" he screams, his voice cracking into a wet, bubbly sob as I step into the pool of light. "I swear! Just the perimeter guard schedules! Nothing truly important!"

"That's the lie that gets you the slow death," I say.

I grab his jaw with one hand, my fingers digging into the soft tissue under his ears until his mouth is forced open. He tries to thrash, his boots scraping against the concrete, but the steel chains holding his chest to the chair don't give an inch. I slide the cold iron of the pliers over his left canine.

"Dimitri," I grunt.

"Ready, Boss," Dimitri says from the shadows, holding a bucket of industrial salt.

"No, no, please⁠—"

I twist.

The sound of a tooth breaking off from the jawbone mixes with Fyodor’s scream, a high-pitched, guttural shriek that bounces off the reinforced concrete walls. His chest arches so violently that I hear his ribs pop against the chains. Blood fountains out of his mouth, thick and dark, splashing over my knuckles and dripping onto my boots.

I toss the bloody tooth onto the concrete floor. It makes a small clink.

"The salt, Dimitri," I say, wiping my fingers on my trousers.

Dimitri steps forward and dumps a handful of coarse salt directly into Fyodor’s open, bleeding mouth. The scream that follows isn't human. It’s a wet, choking gurgle as the salt burns the raw nerve endings. Fyodor’s eyes roll back into his head, his body shaking in a violent, uncontrollable seizure of pure agony.

"Now," I say, leaning down until my mouth is inches from his ear, smelling his sweat and the hot copper of his blood. "Tell me which gate you sold them."

He’s coughing, spitting up bloody salt crystals onto his chest. "The... the east," he gasps, his spit pink and bubbly. "The service gate. Tonight. They’re coming tonight, Ilya. Please... let me go."

I stand up, tossing the pliers onto the metal table. "No."

Before I can grab the next tool, the overhead lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then they go out completely, leaving us in the pitch black.

The emergency red lights hum to life three seconds later, bathing the basement in a dull, bloody glow.

Then the klaxon starts, a low, rhythmic wail that vibrates through the concrete under my boots.

"Breach," Dimitri says, his gun already in his hand. "East wing."

The east gate. The bastard lied about the timing.

I don't waste time on a bullet. I grab the heavy steel bar from the table and drive the blunt end straight through Fyodor’s throat, crushing his windpipe in a single, heavy strike. He chokes, his eyes wide and bulging in the red light as his lungs fill with blood.

"Let's go," I say, pulling my Glock from its holster. "They’re here for the girl."

My blood is instantly hot, the cold detachment of the torture room vanishing into a raw, focused hunger for violence. Petr Denisov sent his extraction team. He actually thought he could come into my house and take what is mine.

We run up the narrow concrete stairs, the wail of the siren growing louder with every step. The air upstairs is already different—thick with the scents of cordite and burnt plaster.

"They cut the main feed," Dimitri grunts as we reach the main hallway of the ground floor. "We have twenty, maybe thirty men inside."

"Kill them all," I growl. "I’ll clear the stairs. Keep them away from the west wing. Ekaterina’s there."

"And the girl?"