Page 56 of Violent Pawn

Having the location of one ex-Elite member is a start, but slipping away to Russia to deal with him is an entirely different matter. The last time I went alone was for Anastasia’s Christmas performance, which Zeno merely laughed off. I turned down Vanessa’s offer of staying at the mansion and booked a hotel room so Anastasia wasn’t aware I was in the city.

Being gone for a couple of days while I run off to murder someone will have my Capo asking questions. So Angeloff gets to live until figuring out how to get away. In my position, with Elio and soldiers constantly coming to me, it’s easier said than done.

Days after Christmas—which ended with me being a coward—Zeno offers me to join him in Moscow for New Year’s Eve fun. I’m the first to reach the jet with a packed bag, not wanting the opportunity to get away.

Once inside Moscow, slipping away could pose an issue, but it’s something I’ll deal with if it is. For now, I’m one man’s death closer to being able to admit everything to Zeno.

Vanessa has a car waiting for us when we land since she couldn’t come herself this time, but I instruct the flight crew to call a separate taxi for me. It arrives as our bags are unloaded and placed into the back of Vanessa’s car.

Zeno trails me to the taxi. “What are you up to?”

Hand on the door and eager to get this over with, I downplay the excitement coursing through me with a shrug. “A surprise for Ana. I’ll meet you there later. Text me when you learn where ‘there’ is.”

He watches me climb inside and blocks the door with his leg. “What are you actually up to?”

“I just told you.”

“Then tell me what the surprise is.”

“And have you ruining it when you tell Vanessa? She’ll run straight to Ana. It’s nothing bad.”

Zeno narrows his eyes. “Fine. I’ll text you where we end up, but hurry. Don’t kill anyone or do anything that’ll get me in shit with my wife.”

“She isn’t your wife yet.”

“She’s my wife in all the ways that matter, which is why I’m begging you to not do anything stupid.”

“It’s nothing that’ll hurt the Bratva, I swear.” I reach for the door and this time he lets it fall, backing away from the taxi as I instruct the driver where to go, even showing a screenshot of the address to ensure there isn’t a language misinterpretation.

Zeno doesn’t realize my surprise is actually for him.

Getting to Angeloff is easy due to his lack of security. He’s watching TV in his house, sipping tea in his pyjamas. Certainly an exciting New Year’s and nothing of what he used to do as an Elite member.

How the mighty have fallen.

Without cameras or alarms alerting him to my arrival—idiota—I slip through his back door, knife in hand while edging down the hallway towards his living room. Given the layout of the room, my silent steps only get me so far before he sees me coming and releases a squeal rivalling a pig’s.

He’s slow to his feet. His age is catching up to him along with a lack of exercise. He reaches behind the couch, and presuming old habits die hard, he’s going for a weapon. He’s wise enough to learn from his mob days to keep protection nearby, but not to install a security system, which is stupidly amusing.

I’m faster, lunging across the space and jamming a fist into his gut to keep him down. I pull out my gun, with a silencer already attached. This isn’t his intended death, but he doesn’t know that and the threat gets him to stop fighting.

“Who are you?” He’s even sweating like a pig, his skin blistering red with perspiration and fear.

“Your boss once wronged mine.”

“Your accent…Cosa Nostra,” he breathes. His eyes dart to the exit. His intentions couldn’t be more obvious. Before his feet even fully settle onto the carpet, I kick his kneecaps, forcing him down. He gulps, glancing between my knife and gun before his head bows, accepting his death. “This is about Giovanni Mancini? What do you want in exchange for my freedom? I’ll disappear from Russia—I swear, I will!”

“Your death is my price.” I twirl the knife around in my hand. “A man’s father is dead because of you and yours.”

Some of that piglike red pales. “The Bratva will⁠—”

My laughter cuts him off. “Do nothing to help you, and we both know that. Vanessa doesn’t care about you. Hell, she’ll thank me when you’re gone.”

His face scrunches, his plea for life slipping behind his decade-old judgment. “That bitch is marrying Mancini’s son. Fucking disgusting.” He spits between my legs, but I spare the offending goo a mere second’s glance.

“That bitch will spit on your soul on its trip into hell. Speaking of, don’t you have an appointment there shortly?”

I lunge and slash my knife against his throat, creating a deep enough line of red to ensure nothing will save this man’s soul. It’s a quick death, where he bleeds out on his couch, head back and mouth open in a silent scream.