Page 23 of Nemesis

“Really,” I grind out. “Because I couldn’t pick you apart from a sack of shit.”

Anger flickers through his features. He’s quick to react. Good. I can work with that.

“I heard your uncle sold you to the Solokov Bratva like a worthless street soldier. I would love to know what possessed Mikhail Solokov to take such a bad deal.”

“Wouldn’t we all.”

One thing’s clear: this guy’s been watching organized crime operations for a while now. He’s no insider. No one involved with the Bratva in any sense would go around spouting their information so freely. He’s proud of what he’s managed to learn as an outsider. Careless.

And something else is growing astoundingly clear, too, solidifying with each glance he steals past my broad chest.

I’m not the one he’s interested in.

The thought only unsettles me more. I know how this goes when I’m the one they’re after. I’m good at playing that game. But I have no clue what happens next in this one.

I flick a piece of dirt from my arm. “It’s a bit chilly in here. Would you mind finding your point?”

Another flash of anger lights his eyes, there and buried in less than a second.

I want his attention back. Every time this shitstain looks past my chest to the woman hiding behind me, something unsettling wriggles around in my gut.

“Careful how you speak to me, boy. You are nearly useless in this situation, and what little value you have is quickly depreciating.”

Why would they think this girl has something to do with Siderov?

But that’s not quite what he said, was it? He said she was a Siderov.

I rack my brain, trying to recall the Siderov family dynamics. As far as I remember, the Siderov line only contains males, none of whom are direct heirs to the line of power. They’ve also never had any business or territories in New York. Did these men have enough time and resources to transport us out of state while we were down?

“All I needed was one single confirmation of her identity. I was waiting for her to contact her father, but she never did. I suppose you’re the explanation for that.”

“Am I?” I ask, pleased that my cellmate isn’t responding to this asshole anymore. He clearly wants her attention, and whether she’s hiding something or not, it’s best not to play right into his hand.

Why do you care, Vasiliy?

“She’s not communicating with him directly,” he says, steps echoing as he walks the length of the bars. “She’s doing so through you.”

My head tilts.

The only thing more dangerous than a good interrogator is a misinformed one, and this guy has no interest in disproving his theory.

“You are a talented dancer, sweet Octavia,” he purrs, having had enough with talking to me. Not good. “I have been attending your performances for many years. You only become more graceful with age.”

I’m not sure if he’s intentionally goading the little fireball behind me, or if he’s truly blind. I’ve only known her for a handful of hours, and I already know she doesn’t have a sweet bone in her body. She practically radiates rage with every movement. She even tried to kill me not thirty minutes earlier. I can’t think of the useless strap of leather without a smile threatening my lips.

She tried to kill me.

“It pays the bills,” Octavia responds behind me.

Despite the circumstances, I have to fight a chuckle at the snide response.

“Yes, and I imagine your father helps fund that decrepit apartment of yours as well.”

“You’re mistaken. I pay for that shithole with my own blood and sweat. Don’t give me daddy issues I haven’t earned.”

I study the man’s gaze as he processes her words. Irritation rolls over his eyes like a crashing wave. His head turns a fraction to the right.

My muscles flex.