Page 22 of Inked in Devotion

Ivan gave an audible yawn.

I glanced over my shoulder. “You’re bored?”

“You used to be more entertaining.” The first few years after I joined the Zahkarov bratva, Ivan came along to watch me work. As pakhan, he decided whether I should go harder or ease off with my torture methods. After nearly losing Aralina in the fire, he retreated from the brutality of the bratva business, preferring to become more involved in the organization’s legitimate side. He supported Irina and her charities and concentrated on building up the Zahkarov name to make it synonymous with Russian royalty. I suspected Ivan was afraid of karma. He’d already lost his eldest son, Roman, where, because of his ruthlessness, a rival mob kidnapped Roman and Kirill in retaliation. Roman was killed during the rescue.

“I’m not here for your entertainment.” But despite mellowing out, I suspected Ivan missed the thrill.

Ivan huffed. “Do you have vodka in the van?”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you people? I thought you worked for Orlov!”

My head swung back to him. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Are these children for Orlov’s sick operations?” Orlov was the head of the Chicago Russian mob, and he was the top human trafficker in the country, second to the cartels. Orlov’s clientele, though, were the global elite.

Grigori thought he could compete, but he needed the backing of the Zahkarov bratva. None of the brigadiers approved, especially Kirill before he took over as pakhan.

Wilson’s mouth clamped shut. I knew how to make him open it again.

I grabbed the shears.

Ten minutes later, with Wilson missing his molars and a few fingers, I disposed of the gloves and strode out of the room with an address, bumping into Ivan.

“You’re done?” he asked impatiently.

“Maybe. I’m calling Sato now. Signal is fucked in there.”

I walked near the entrance until I had full bars.

Sato answered on the first ring. “About fucking time.”

I gave him the address, not too far from where they were circling. It was another warehouse area in New Jersey.

“Don’t kill him yet,” Sato warned.

“It’s not my fault if he bleeds out.” I ended the call and stalked back to my torture chamber.

Ivan was talking to Wilson while taking a swig of the vodka. Meanwhile, Wilson was sobbing. The room already reeked of piss and copper. Blood poured from his mouth, and his fingers were dripping straight onto the plastic sheets.

“There were sleeves of tumblers in the van,” I muttered.

“This is easier,” Ivan replied. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” I said. “Are you all right there, Wilson?”

“Fuck you! You’re going to hell.” At least those were the words I deciphered from his mouth that sounded like it was stuffed with cotton.

“Been there and back,” I drawled. “Hell spit me out.”

Ivan held out a cigar.

“What’s this?” I asked.

He jerked his head toward the exit. I tossed a look at Wilson. The man seemed to be exhausted and was slumped over the chair. I guessed I had a few minutes.

“Might as well celebrate. You have a baby boy,” Ivan said when Wilson was out of earshot. “So, how did the arbitration go?”