Page 72 of Violent Pawn

Soldiers fight in the background, wiping out the rest of those who’ve been running this ring. After the leader was taken out, I left them to fight so I could save the women we’re here for. Lev stops walking at some point and pointedly looks away from the cage where five women huddle together. One naked and four in dirty, ripped shifts.

I slide my gun into my waistband and knife back into my thigh holster and hold up my hands so they see I’m unarmed. Three of the women are curled on the ground, holding one another, while two remain standing. Only one is watching me, though, her ice-blond hair caked with mud and blood as frail, starved arms are wrapped around the other.

“You’re free. We’re getting you out of here. I vow that no one will hurt you again. Can I get your names?”

Defiance shines within the one watching me. A spirited woman they obviously never broke—small mercies.

Whoops and cheers come from the distance, and the shooting dies for silence. It means the men are all gone and another ring successfully taken control of.

“They’re gone,” I tell them. “You’re safe.”

Lev walks up beside me holding a stack of blankets. His head remains turned away for their modesty—because they’ve had none of that during their time here.

“Can I get your names?” I try again.

The defiant one tucks the girl to her side, flicks her hair, and replies, “Sasha. And…thank you.”

When Sasha urges Irina by us, the vision breaks. She takes a robe from one of the other girls who noticed the commotion and waited at the end of the hallway. Once Irina’s covered and out of listening distance, I poke my head inside the room. The guest is struggling to pull on a pair of boxers, his face red and nose bleeding as my bouncer stands over him, knuckles a matching colour.

“You know where to take him.”

He hoists the limp man and drags him out into the hall and towards the mirror at the farthest end. He pries open the frame, revealing a hidden door—a room set aside specifically for concealing such penalties I didn’t want on any blueprint that the cops could dig up.

“You may as well go.” I wave a hand to Nero, who’s been hovering and watching. “I’ll be busy for a while.”

He catches the same hand, bringing it down to my side. In the reflection of the partially open mirror door the bouncer disappeared through, I watch the image we make.

“Let me come with you. Like I said, I want to know all parts.”

Old vulnerabilities slip into place, wrenching my hand away. “Go home and picture the woman in the ballet outfit or the dress from the other night.”

He steps to my other side, blocking our reflection and forcing me to see his determination straight on. “You didn’t become an Elite because you were simply Vanessa’s closest friend. I know you’re a fighter, Petrov. You proved it the minute we re-met, when you burst into the villa for her.” He tilts my chin. “I’m not some weak asshole from your past. You and I are the same, and a bit of blood won’t scare me off. When I said I want to know all of you, I meant all of you. The woman I’ve met is only a fraction of the Bratva soldier I’ve been admiring for years. Allow me to meet her.”

They’re pretty words, sure, but disappointment is way too prevalent in my world.

“I protect the women here. I ensure what happened before doesn’t happen again. We’re exclusive and careful who we allow in, but rich scum never could afford a dictionary that includes the word ‘no.’ So it’s my role to ensure they understand why they chose the wrong time to misunderstand those two letters.”

My explanation is meant to push him away for both our protection, but Nero steps out of my way, gesturing to the mirror. “Then please, Signorina Petrov, lead the way.”

36

NERO

If I wasn’t already addicted to Anastasia, seeing her exact revenge could have the power to make me fall in love with her.

Zeno and I have known for years that the Bratva got better under Vanessa’s rule, meaning less horrific when they ended the human trafficking. Witnessing Anastasia now shatters all those notions about them being “gentle.”

Because Anastasia isn’t gentle at all. Gone is the pretty ballerina, the hardened Elite in her place. Not apologetic, not soft, but ruthless.

I remain against the far wall, out of the way, when a nagging sensation itches the back of my neck. There’s something in her eyes as she rounds on the crying man being held down by her security guard. Something darker, something personal.

As if the customer is a stand-in for someone else.

The hidden room we’re inside is pretty small, maybe the size of two attached prison cells. Limited equipment, a single chair with chains dangling from the ceiling, the steel auburn-shaded with old bloodstains.

The way Anastasia moves around the captive is daunting. Her steps are fluid, like the cement floor is actually a wooden stage, me the vast audience giving her a standing ovation, and the dull lightbulb overhead the spotlight that trails her dancing. Because that’s what this is—another kind of performance. Instead of a paying audience, it’s a show for the creep to comprehend what disobeying Anastasia’s rules results in.

I wonder how many people she’s killed over the years.