Page 93 of Nemesis

“Pakhan,” one addresses him, stepping forward. Their prisoner collapses back into the chair, sighing with relief at the diversion.

Sasha arches his brow. “Report.”

They have nothing, I assess with certainty. Through the shadows, I can see the spark of resistance still alive and flaring in their victim’s eyes.

“The traitor still refuses to talk, sir, but we’ll get him⁠—”

Sure, you will, little guy.

“No need,” Sasha cuts in, causing his guy’s jaw to clamp shut. Then he turns his head to me. “Well? Can you break him?”

Rude. My reputation used to prevent questions like that.

“You can’t be serious! This guy is one of ours,” his soldier spits, stepping forward. “We deserve the right to deal with him oursel⁠—”

A click sounds through the air, silencing the show of insubordination. Sasha’s gun glints in the lamplight.

“You deserve nothing.” His voice is soft and deadly. “You had three days. A generous three days, in fact, during which you accomplished nothing. You’ve left me no choice but to consider other avenues.”

Cloying silence settles in the wake of his words. It’s interesting that he’d lay everything out in the open like this, right in front of his captive. I suppose the man understands his fate well enough, having worked for the Siderov Bratva before defecting.

“Yes, sir,” the soldier finally gives in. The crowd in the warehouse roars like thunder in the distance.

The Pakhan sighs, slipping his gun back into his belt and nodding my way.

What a mess. You’ve got a defector in the chair who’s prepared for everything an interrogation will bring. A collection of his former brothers who wish to punish him more than to question him. A random littering of useless injuries decorating his skin in purple streaks and uncauterized cuts. They’re lucky this guy didn’t catch an infection and die in the last three days.

I stroll up to the chair, taking in every injury. His brows lower when he catches my approach. There’s a place for violence in this room, but it works best on a specific type of man. One who can already see the peaceful quiet taunting him from the other side, and wants the pain to end.

But this guy? He looks almost gluttonous for his punishment. Guilt fills his eyes as they dart around the room, pinging to the people who considered him family. That’s how Bratvas work. Loyalty over love, bond over blood, my uncle used to say.

I stop directly in front of him and clear my throat. “I want a beer.”

“Excuse me?” Sasha says. His other soldiers take subtle steps back. He wouldn’t shoot me. He knows Octavia would have him out back, digging his own grave with a shovel.

“Beer me,” I drawl with a half grin.

A sigh splits the air. Then I can hear the low murmurs of him directing orders in the back of the room.

“Whatever you’re trying to do,” the captive says between broken teeth, “won’t work.”

I glance at the guy’s matted, grey hair. It seems like his face took the brunt of the beating on day one, given the purple and green lumps around his eyes and cheek. His chin is split, and the cut is coated in a yellowish film, indicating late-stage infection.

“Here,” one of Sasha’s soldiers mumbles, slipping a cool bottle into my hand.

“A chair, too. I hate bending over.”

Silence responds, followed by the unmistakable metal screech of a chair being dragged into the center of the room. Once I’m all settled, I spread my legs and sink back into the seat, letting my new friend assess me as thoroughly as I assessed him.

He nods at the bottle. “How do you plan on opening that?”

I grin. Gripping the base, I slam the top against the metal corner of my chair. The cap pops free, bouncing across the stained, concrete floor below.

“Clever boy.”

“That one’s a crowd-pleaser,” I say with a wink. “You want a sip?”

He frowns, face clouding with suspicion.