Page 65 of Bratva Sacrifice

Papa hikes his thumb toward the corner of the room to indicate the security camera anchored to the wall. A light is blinking. Recording. “That Russian stronzo killed my Nicky, my precious boy.” His voice is thick with an emotion he can spare only for his beloved son. “So I will show him the truth before he dies. And he can go to hell knowing he sent you there first.”

∞∞∞

My legs won’t support me when I’m finally untied from the steel pole and forced upright. I’ve been kneeling too long. Instead I’m carried roughly from the room, up a series of stairs, and out into bright afternoon sunlight. I was somewhere in the basement of Papa’s house, I think. Or maybe one of his brothers’. Deep in the basement, where no one could hear me screaming.

They toss into the back of a waiting car. Not even into a seat. Onto the floorboards, like garbage.

They don’t bother to drug me. Maybe they don’t care enough even to offer me the temporary relief unconsciousness might bring.

Maybe I’m too close to death to bother worrying about.

The drive is long. I don’t bother trying to scream or cry or flail. I have so little energy left in me. I need to save every bit of it, to bide my time until the right moment.

I promised myself I was going to trust Alexei. I just need to give him the opportunity to trust me. Right now, I’m alive. I’m conscious. I’m still breathing. So I let myself rest as much as I’m able through the jarring bumps in the road that rattle my bones. And I hold that thought in my mind. One moment. I just need one moment. Just one, and he’ll believe me. He’ll trust me. He has to.

Eventually the car slows to a stop. I hear the beep of an intercom. I hear my father say, “It’s Russo.”

There’s the shrill of metal as the gate opens, and the car lurches into motion again as it rolls up the long drive toward the house. Finally. Finally, I’m home.

Rough hands drag me out of the backseat, pulling me half-upright by my arms. My legs drag up the steps, and my knees scrape the rough concrete. I can’t even keep my head up. I am saving every last bit of strength I can summon.

I pitch forward as soon as I’m released, falling into a sprawl on the concrete. My arms aren’t strong enough to push myself up, so I settle for turning my head.

And despair wraps itself around my heart and squeezes. It’s not Alexei standing there on the steps waiting for me.

It’s Piotr. He doesn’t even try to mask his disdain for me. It’s etched into the hollows of his cheeks, twisted into the curl of his lips. He grabs a manila envelope that was tucked beneath his arm and extends it to Lorenzo. And then he pulls his phone out of his pocket and makes a call.

On speakerphone, Alexei answers in sharp, brusque Russian.

As Piotr responds in kind, I draw in a deep breath, summon every bit of my strength, and beg, “Alyosha, please.” It’s all I can manage. I have nothing left in me.

For a long moment there’s only silence. And then at last, Alexei’s voice crackles over the speakerphone. Harder and colder than I’ve ever heard it. In English, for my benefit.

“Put her in the pit,” he says, and the line goes dead.

My father chuckles as he and his brothers turn to leave, abandoning me to my fate. The Russo in name only, useful only to die.

And I close my eyes and give up. I just hope it’s quick.

Chapter Thirty Three

Alexei

Fuck!” The shout burns in my lungs. With a vicious snap of my arm, I hurl my phone against the nearest wall. The violent strike dents the drywall, and the phone lands with a shattering crash to the marble floor.

Alyosha, please!

Does she think I will have sympathy for her? Was she foolish enough to believe there would be no punishment for what she has done? That she can make a fool of me and have this offense so easily erased from memory? I will never be so weak as that.

And still my fucking heart aches, like she has torn it from my chest with her pathetic cry. Nearly a week she has been gone, and I have missed her like a lost limb. I wake in the night reaching for her. I leave the fucking light on at night for her like she is still here beside me.

My boots crunch the pieces of my destroyed phone beneath them as I pace the floor. Shattered, like the remnants of the computer and phone I bought for her, and which I also smashed into shards when I realized what she had done. And still this is not enough to vent the rage that roils in my chest. For days those broken bits of electronics tortured me with their very presence scatted across the floor. A taunting reminder of my own stupidity.

I sink into the chair behind my desk, and my hands tremble as I rake them through my hair. My fingers pull at knots and tangles, and the pain of this calms me temporarily. A physical pain which is soothing, distracting from the pain Katya has inflicted upon me, even if it does not last long.

Like a fucking fool, I want to go to her. It is for her own sake that I do not. The chaos of my mind frightens even me; I cannot be certain how I will react. The consequences of my anger have proven deadly for far less devastating betrayals than this.

So it is best Katya goes to the pit to be forgotten for a time. It is for her own safety that I confine her.