Page 33 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"I only gave them the backup relay!" He lets out a high, terrified whine as I tighten the lead screw another quarter-turn. "Nothing else! I swear on my mother’s soul! I didn't know they were going to blow the lock! I thought they were just going to cut the cameras!"

"The key was used to bypass the north wing smart locks," I say, my voice flat, completely devoid of the anger currently humming in my veins. "Twenty-two of my men are in body bags because of your debt. That means each of your fingers is worth exactly one life."

I grab the heavy iron handle of the vise and give it a sharp, ruthless twist.

The sound of his index finger bone shattering under the relentless pressure of the iron jaws is a dry, sharp snap, like a dry twig breaking in the winter. Grigori’s scream is a high-pitched, gargling shriek that bounces off the wet limestone walls. His body arches off the chair, his right hand clawing frantically at the leather straps as his eyes roll back into his head, exposing the whites.

I don't release the pressure. I pick up the scaling blade, the silver edge catching the harsh glare of the single overhead bulb. "Who bought the key, Grigori? I want the name of the broker."

"Pavel!" He gasps, his spit pink and bubbly as he chokes on his own tongue. "He... he works the Russo docks! He met me in the back of the warehouse! He had the cash in a gym bag! Please, Ilya! Open the vise! I can’t breathe!"

"Pavel is a low-level runner," I say, my thumb sliding down the flat of the blade. "He doesn't have the clearance to authorize a thirty-man hit. Try again."

I position the tip of the scalpel directly under the fingernail of his middle finger, right where the raw nerve endings meet the skin.

"Ilya."

I freeze, the scalpel still held steady in my hand. I turn my head slowly toward the heavy steel fire door at the end of the corridor.

Via is standing in the threshold.

She’s wearing the oversized grey sweater and black leggings she’d taken from the dresser, her hair falling over her shoulders in a messy, golden tangle. Her face is entirely white, her hazel eyes wide and glassy as she looks at the blood pooling on the concrete, the raw, crushed skin of Grigori’s hand, and the heavy iron vise on the workbench.

My heart hits my ribs with a sudden, heavy thud.

I lower the blade, my boots squelching in the shallow pool of red as I step away from the hanging man. "Who let you down here?"

She grips the heavy frame of the steel door, her fingers white, her chest rising and falling in short, rapid movements. "Ekaterina’s finger. She scraped it on the old iron drawer in the parlor. It was bleeding, and she was crying. I went to find Yara to get the first-aid kit, but she wasn't in the kitchen. I heard... I heard a thumping down the stairs. I thought it was the boiler."

She’s lying about the boiler. She heard the screams. She’s smart. She wanted to see what was behind the red door, to see the monster in his element.

I walk toward her, my boots heavy on the wet concrete. I’m covered in Grigori’s blood. It’s splashed across my white shirt, smeared down the front of my leather apron, and dripping from my knuckles. I look like a butcher. I expect her to scream, to turn and run back to her windowless suite, to beg me to spare her the sight.

Instead, she stands her ground. Her shoulders are rigid, her chin lifted as she stares directly into my face, though I can see the rapid, panicked flutter of her pulse in her neck.

"This is inefficient," she says, her voice shaking but her tone flat. "And messy."

I stop three feet from her, the scent of her vanilla and clean skin instantly cutting through the copper stench of the blood. I tilt my head, watching her face. "Inefficient?"

"You’re using brute force. You’re making him scream so much, his vocal cords are tearing. He’s choking on his own blood, Ilya. He can’t give you names if he’s suffocating."

I let out a low, dry chuckle, the sound rough in my chest.

"And what would you suggest, little bird?" I step closer, my massive frame completely blocking her view of the room. "Should I ask him politely?"

"The nerve bundle under the arm," she says, her eyes rising to meet mine, hazel and defiant. "My father’s men used to use a thin needle. Just behind the armpit. It doesn't draw blood, but it feels like your skin is being poured with boiling oil. They don't scream as much, but they talk faster. And you don't ruin your nice boots."

I stare at her, my blood instantly running hot. She’s terrified. I can see the tiny tremor in her lower lip, the way her hands are clutching the fabric of her sweater to keep from shaking, but she’s using her intellect, her dark upbringing, to match my brutality. She’s showing me her teeth.

"Your father taught you well, Via," I murmur, my hand coming up to cup her face.

I stop before I touch her. My hand is covered in dark, sticky red. I don't want to stain her pale skin with Grigori’s blood. I lower my arm, my jaw setting. "Go back to the kitchen. Yara is in the pantry. Get the kit for Ekaterina."

"Are you going to kill him?" She looks at Grigori, her voice dropping.

"Yes."

"Okay."