Page 7 of Black Ledger

My other four dolls were chained to chairs along one side of the room, gagged, and forced to watch Target Practice Tuesday.

“In fairness, they don’t seem happy most days,” I said, picking up a knife from a tray and examining it.

“Well, you cut off four of their dicks last Target Practice Tuesday and made the others watch.”

Now I only had two dolls with their penises still attached because I’d cut off Aleksandr’s. I had to be clinical when I removed his, so I could send it to his son. I still laughed about that bit.

Usually I tended to keep the dicks—kind of like my serial killer trophy. So the other four were in my refrigerator like little flesh balloons.

To remove them, I’d thrown my knife at their crotches. Perfect bull’s-eyes. Neeve applied tourniquets to the base of their penises before we performed the final surgery. The result was little dick balloons, which were much better than little dick sludge. Have you ever seen a broken penis?

It was not a pretty sight.

I’d learned that the hard way.

I bit my lip and turned to Neeve. “Aww, well, that was an accident.”

“You accidentally threw your knife and cut off four men’s dicks?” Neeve shook her head. “Everyone knows you have perfect aim, Xeniya. You never miss unless you want to, and even then, can you really call it missing?”

“I do recall you throwing one of those knives.”

“Well, yes, because you taught me to have fair aim.”

I laughed. “Right. You did accidentally put the knife in his thigh first.”

I examined my blade before closing my eyes and throwing it at my dartboard. I grazed one man’s butt cheek.

“Is there any particular part of their body you’re aiming for tonight?”

“I could always use fingers.” I smiled widely as the basement door creaked open and two sets of heavy footfalls descended the stairs.

There were seven rooms down here, but the main room off the stairs was where I held group sessions, so whoever ventured down would be in for a show.

This visit was curious, because neither my guards nor the Callahan men came into my torture chambers often. They had some of their own in the main house.

A moment later, the second door swung open. Cormac Callahan, patriarch of the Irish mafia, walked in, followed by his heir, Callum—Neeve’s father and brother, respectively.

“We received an invitation from the Russians,” Cormac said, walking in nonchalantly, as if watching seven men being tortured—one of them the head of the Bratva—was no stranger than reading the Sunday morning newspaper.

Callum slid his hands into the pockets of his designer suit. “They want to iron out an alliance, probably in the wake of Aleksandr’s disappearance.”

“They are in a very vulnerable position.” My focus returned to my knives as I chose the next one to throw. “Intentionally so.”

Severin Volkov and I were playing chess. I had maneuvered him until his only option was to seek stability and alliances. A pact with the Irish would put him in a perfect position.

And I was counting on him to make that move. Little did he know that, in seeking aid, he was bringing in his own Trojan horse, one that would wait inside his gates and eventually lay waste to his castle and men.

But all in good time.

“What do you think he’s going to offer?” I asked.

“I think he’s gonna give us exactly what we want.” Cormac nodded, his gaze falling on the former Russian Pakhan. “He’s going to offer us the trade routes we lost when the MacKennas betrayed us—in exchange for our support, our intel, and possibly a bride.”

“You think he wants a marriage alliance?” Neeve grimaced, picking up a knife from the table.

She did not want to be a sacrificial lamb. She hadn’t been able to stomach a man’s touch since she’d been kidnapped—even after five years of therapy.

“I won’t do it.” Neeve’s voice broke. “You’re going to have to offer up Isolde instead.”