Page 127 of Violent Pawn

The shirtless one, whether to answer me entirely or by coincidence, readjusts his stance and my gaze catches on the tattoos suddenly made visible. A marking on his chest that looks identical to something I’d kissed months ago.

“Cosa Nostra.” Shouldn’t entirely surprise me. “Mancini know you’re up to this?”

Bucket Man, my greeter, laughs harshly, earning the same reaction from his shirtless friend, but still without a reaction from the suited one. “Mancini’s head is so far up his ass these days, he’s forgotten his heritage. He’ll thank us for wiping out the Russian scum who’s been stealing from us.”

After finding the weapons in the brothel, Vanessa mentioned the issues Zeno’s been dealing with the past few months. Deals suddenly ceasing negotiations, his soldiers murdered, and missing merchandise. There’s yet to be a trace as to why they ended up in a basement in Moscow, of all places.

“That’s what all this is?” This being the rope tying me in place, which I manage to undo another layer of. “You’re dumb enough to steal weapons from your own people, all to frame the Bratva? What—because you don’t approve of your Capo’s choice in a bride?”

He spits on the floor by my feet. “He’s taken in by cunt and nothing more.”

I file that statement away to recount to Vanessa later when she’s dancing on their graves. “Repeat that to her face, I dare you. If framing the Bratva was your plan, you have issues. For one, murdering the person you framed for arms dealing makes it too obvious. If dropping my corpse on Zeno’s doorstep is meant to drive a wedge between the married couple, it won’t. They’ll immediately know it’s someone else’s doing, so good luck for when two criminal organizations hunt your asses. Then there’s the fact you’re too late. You should have kidnapped me two days ago, because unless you missed the gold-scripted monogrammed invites that Zeno almost strangled his mother over, they’re already married.”

My rambles go on and on, filling the room with chatter as I manage more and more of the tie, until finally, one wrist is free and able to tug the rest all the way off. I keep it balled in my hands, though, arms still behind my back, until there’s a more ideal time to catch them off guard. At this point, I don’t know what weapons they have or where they’re storing them.

“Putting aside all the idiocies in your plan, tell me what my ending will be. Gunshot wound—slow and painful. Throat slit—always a winner.” Papa’s corpse flashes through my head.

Bucket Man, being predictable as I needed him to be, discloses his weapon by retrieving a switchblade from his right ankle. He strides forward, making this all too easy.

The shirtless one scans me, rubbing his chin. “Maybe we’ll have a taste first, see if Mancini’s smart about chasing northern pussy.”

Once upon a time, a threat like that may have terrified me. At this point, I’ve killed for less and will happily again. Freed from the bounds, they won’t hurt me like that because they’ll never have the chance.

Until that weapon is in reaching distance, I’ll keep them talking, thinking, and simply pissing them off. “Rape,” I croon with a dramatic flutter of my lashes. “Always a winner in the power game. It’ll make you feel like big, strong men. I’m curious who’ll go first. Will you fight over me?”

The knife opens with a whoosh, but he still doesn’t react, tipping his head towards the one in the suit. The only one who has yet to speak, but I understand why.

“You’re the leader of this ragtag bunch,” I conclude. “Too clean to get your hands dirty?”

He barely blinks before casting his attention onto the others. “She’s deflecting. Stalling because she assumes her people will come. I’ve watched this one long enough to know how the Bratva enjoy playing with their food.”

Alright, this I didn’t see coming. The Russian accent unfortunately makes him one of mine. So soldiers from Zeno’s side and someone from ours who has grudges against their marriage.

This explains why he looks familiar. “What do I owe this honour, gospodin…?”

“Vasilyev.”

I nearly drop the rope and reveal my hand—literally—sooner than intended with how hard laughter bursts from my chest. “Oh, this is too good! You’re Georgy Vasilyev? All this because Vanessa turned you down? Take a breath and realize you were never a contender.”

He shifts his stance, trying to make himself seem like someone who’d create fear in an Elite. “Ursin Volkov would keel over and die if he saw what’s become of the Bratva. Ivan Volkov would be disgraced. I was trying to help them restore the organization to its rightful place, but your Pakhan is too stubborn to see the obvious path.”

“If Vanessa’s actions would make Ursin ‘keel over and die,’ to use your words, she’d do the same thing a hundred times over. Your reasoning sucks.”

He takes a weighted step forward into the light, letting me see what I haven’t before. The manic look, the vein bursting on his forehead, the bulging eyes right before he pops off. “She was promised to me! Me! Ursin promised me her hand, but out of respect for my future bride, I was hoping she’d come willingly. With a little discord between her new husband, their marriage will crumble. Your death will break them.”

That’s why he never mentioned that tidbit prior, during his numerous attempts to pull her in. “You’re a little Romeo, aren’t you?” Baring my teeth, I lean forward as much as their rope would allow for, provided I was tied up. “News flash, Ursin lied. You’re chasing a backroom deal he never intended to keep because why would he try to marry her to Erico Rossi then? That was a deal he intended to follow through on, if the attempted kidnapping of Rossi’s wife was any indication.”

A flicker of surprise lowers his brows. He didn’t know, but I’m thrilled to be the bearer of this bad news.

The Cosa Nostra traitors cast uneasy glances, probably trying to determine how much of their plan is about to go tits up, when Vasilyev jerks his chin, a sneer replacing the uncertainty. “Start.”

Bucket Man with the knife—Knife Man now?—whirls like a kid on Christmas morning. All lit up in excitement to extract pain, but unknowingly about to die himself.

Once he’s within arm’s reach, I drop the rope and lunge to my feet, turning for the chair I was strapped to. Gripping the back, I don’t look before swinging, but the crunch of bones breaking confirms my success. The impact flings the knife from his hand to about four feet away. Blood spurts from his cut mouth, followed by a tooth landing with a quiet tick by my feet.

“Next.”

My whispered, almost amused command is masked by the yell that erupts from his shirtless friend, who flings himself forward to help. Gripping the chair tighter, I swing it around in my hand until the legs are out and slam them into his gut and chest. He crumples, groaning, and I swing it again at his face, tossing him sideways. A pained screech fills the warehouse.