Page 68 of Coveted By Cupid

“Don’t worry, Oaks,” I say, staring at the prisoner. His chest rises and falls quickly as he gawks me back, a dark spot spreading over his crotch where he pissed himself. “I’ll be doing the really ugly work.”

“Ah, come on, Prez,” Crypt whines. “You know I enjoy the messy parts.”

“He hurt my Butterfly,” I say, making sure the prisoner understands why he’s getting what comes to him. “He’s mine to end, but you can certainly help.”

Crypt relents, nodding in agreement. “Fair.”

“Connecting the call,” Cipher says from where he’s set up against the wall. He turns the laptop screen in my direction. I laugh at the video image the Mercy Ravens see, showing our prisoner hanging on his hook beside me, like a fisherman posing with one of his giant catches.

A biker I recognize as Chase—the Mercy Ravens MC head of tech—sits in front of the screen with Atlas, Gauge, and a few others from their crew standing behind him.

“Atlas,” I say in a warm greeting, opening my arms wide. “Welcome to the party. Let me introduce you to the pig of the hour.”

“He looks like he’s had a rough twenty-four hours,” Atlas says impassively, assessing our prisoner with cold eyes.

“About to get a lot rougher for him if he doesn’t start talking,” I say before slapping him in the balls.

The prisoner screams behind his clenched teeth, sucking wind.

“Find anything on his identity?” Cipher asks Chase, sounding eager to hear what he may have uncovered through his hacking.

“Had to do a bit of digging, but I found him,” Chase says. “His name is Artem Morozov from Shakhty, Russia. Age thirty-two. He did time in IK-9 along with his twin brother, Mikhail Morozov, for running an illegal gambling ring. After their release from prison, the brothers moved to Moscow, where they joined the Sokolov Bratva and were essentially yes-men, doing the dirty work. When a turf war broke out between the Sokolov and the Gromov Bratvas, it was assumed the competition took the brothers out when they went missing. Turns out Artem fled to the States and hitched a ride with the Black Market Railroad. My guess, his brother, Mikhail, escaped the Bratva turf war with him. Maybe he was one of the other masked abductors the night they tried to take your ole lady, Cupid. And based on the look of fury on your captive’s face hearing me mention his brother’s name, I’d put five-Gs down on that bet.”

All heads turn to our prisoner. Sure as shit, Artem looks downright murderous, glaring daggers.

“The Black Market Railroad is a large organization with multiple branches across the country,” Atlas says, bringing the conversation back on track. “We need to know who is running this branch of the operation and how big a territory they’re covering.”

Understood.

Facing Artem, I ask, “Who’s your handler?”

“Отвали!”

Ruger chuckles. “He’s a spicy one, ain’t he?”

“You are a dog,” Artem snaps in his direction, making Ruger laugh harder.

I smack Artem on the cheek, making him flinch. It gets his attention. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. Who is your handler?”

Artem spits on my cut, disrespecting me and my club. My men hiss, fists clenching and knuckles cracking.

“Fuck you and your whore,” Artem says with a sneer. “When Mikhail finds her again, I hope he fucks her dead.”

“Shit.” Atlas groans on the other end of the laptop, knowing the gloves are off.

Nobody disrespects me or the club without suffering serious bodily harm. That he threatened my Butterfly means the punishment will be extra excruciating.

Wiping his spit off my cut, I calmly walk to the workbench where Crypt has all his tools laid out. My enforcer watches me intently, waiting to see what torture instrument I pick first.

“Cupid,” Atlas says through the laptop, trying to break through my murderous mindset. “Before you mess him up, we need answers.”

“You’ll get them,” I say confidently, picking up a double-crush emasculator tool used for livestock. A perfect instrument to use on a monster that preys on women.

“Great choice, Prez,” Crypt says, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically.

“Put on gloves,” Scalpel says, handing me a pair. “You don’t know where his dick has been. Better to be safe.”

“Ah, fuck!” Oaks groans, turning his head to face the wall. “I hate castration almost as much as skinning.”