Page 8 of Nemesis

“Yes, Uncle.”

“But I expect regular updates on his plans going forward. And if you even think of draining that offshore stockpile of yours and dropping off the face of the Earth, I hope you remember the asset you left behind.”

As if I could ever forget.

Screams echo against the low ceiling as I slice my scalpel through a new patch of flesh, working my way systematically across the most sensitive parts of the chest below me. My ears ring from the proximity to the shrieks. I’m growing tempted to put the gag back in, but that would make it considerably more difficult for him to give me what I’m after. So we endure each other.

Then there’s the judgmental presence heating up my back like a campfire.

Solokov sicced his second-in-command on me, and having a babysitter observe my process is pissing me off more by the minute. I’m not self-conscious. I just work better alone, without someone peeking over my shoulder and wondering if I’m absolutely sure about that incision.

I’m always sure about the incision.

“Would you take a step back?” I finally snap at the massive blond man hovering behind my shoulder. “I don’t swing that way.”

Blood wells against the silver of my knife as I open another cut, precise and unhurried. The resulting scream vibrates through the empty warehouse. There’s an art to this that most people miss entirely. Patterns of nerves beneath the skin that react more strongly to stimuli. You have to give them just enough to understand what’s coming. Let the dangling threat of more do half the work.

Ivan’s chuckle trickles through the echoing room. “You don’t, little Morozov? That certainly doesn’t align with the rumors I’ve heard.”

“Please,” the man whispers below me. The sharp scent of piss cuts through the copper in the air.

I pull back, tilting my head. “And what rumors would that be?”

Ivan’s lip tugs up as he scratches his jaw. “I heard you either fuck or stab everything that touches you. Not that I particularly care.” His face folds with consideration. “I remember being young and angry all the time. I think I had slightly higher standards, but…”

The guy tied to my chair releases a dramatic sob. Sweat and tears have turned his face into something almost unrecognizable. I always find that fascinating—how quickly the body abandons its basic composure under sufficient duress.

I can’t help but lean down to play with my food. “Is that how the Nolov family sounded in their final moments?”

“I didn’t want to,” he sobs, his head dropping forward. “I was only following orders⁠—”

“Mm.” I crouch to his eye level, waiting until he looks at me. He tries not to. They always try not to, as if avoiding my gaze will make this any less real. “And who gave them?”

“I can’t.” Another sob. “Please.”

I straighten up and return to my needles.

There’s a particular sound a man makes when metal slides under a fingernail, distinct from every other sound pain produces. I’ve studied and memorized most of them by now, the way a musician studies notes. Not because I enjoy it, exactly, but because understanding the instrument makes you better at playing it. I repeat the process until enough blood is tracking down the drain beneath his chair that I start to consider the logistics of him losing consciousness again.

Having to use the smelling salts a third time is genuinely annoying.

“Okay, p-please…s-s-stop!”

I halt. We do our dance. I raise my brow. He doesn’t answer. I reach for the next needle.

He breaks in the fourth round. They always do eventually. Loyalty is nothing in the face of pain, and I am an expert at pain.

“Federov,” he breathes. “Please. Stop this! I-I can’t take m-more.”

Ivan’s footsteps cross the floor behind me, deliberate and slow.

“Federov sent you?” His voice is all business this time, no doubt filing the information away for later use.

I don’t know who this Federov guy is, and honestly, I couldn’t care less. The man broke; my function here is complete, and I have absolutely no interest in the organizational politics that come after.

“Well, if that’ll be all,” I say, stripping off my soiled gloves and thumping Ivan on the shoulder, “I’m starving. Mind if I head out?” I reach into my pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes I picked up from the bodega on my street.

“That shit’s bad for you,” Ivan says with a chuckle, picking up a soiled blade from the table and wiping it clean on his shirt. Disgusting.