In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(81)

The creaking steel door was pulled open, Vlad entering the room first, then Mishca. He carried an aluminum folding chair, setting it up against the back wall so he was at the back of the two men hanging from the hooks.

One of them, Ivan, thirty-five had a tiger head tattooed on his throat, a mark that distinguished him as an enforcer for their organization. He had had the mark since Mishca could remember, but he had never understood how Ivan had gotten it at such a young age. Most men never received it, but since he wasn’t under Mishca’s rule, he didn’t question it.

The other, Anatoly, was as vicious as he was big, weighing in at over two hundred pounds. He was one of Viktor’s preferred men, doing any and everything that was asked of him. He cared nothing for the rules of their world, he cared only for currency.

Besides what he learned in passing from others, Mishca knew very little of the two, only that they were under Viktor’s rule in Brooklyn.

Ivan twisted his body, trying to look back at Mishca, but with the way he was chained, it was nearly impossible. Between the two of them, he was the weakest link.

Mishca folded his hands in his lap, regarding the men, letting everything drain away inside of him. If he was going to do this, it had to be impersonal. This was no longer about Lauren, this was about territory and the consequences of their actions.

Only one of them would be able to leave this room alive because two people was a liability. One of them would take the rap for the cop’s and Lauren’s attack. Which of them it would be, was up to them.

He kept his voice calm as he spoke. “You have one opportunity to talk. Just one. No, don’t look to him for help,” he snapped at Ivan as he glanced over at Anatoly. “He can’t help you now.”

Ivan quickly jerked his head around, facing the wall.

“You came into my territory without my blessing. Explain.”

Anatoly remained stubbornly silent, but Ivan’s entire body was shaking. He was wise, he chose to answer. “We were following orders, Captain.”

“Zhatknis!” Anatoly hissed at his partner, silencing the other man.

Mishca climbed to his feet, flexing his fingers as he circled the man that stared him down stubbornly. Anatoly knew he faced death and Mishca was grudgingly impressed, probably more so if the circumstances that brought them here were not so dire.

“So you will not speak?” Mishca asked in Russian, giving the man a once over. “ I have ways of making you talk.”

“Nothing I have never felt before.” Anatoly jerked against his chains, straining to break free, but in his futile attempts, Mishca spotted something on his arms.

There were long scratches along the man’s arms and hands, scabbed over and nearly healed. In his mind’s eye, he could see Lauren’’s face, the purple bruises high on her cheeks, along her jaw, and the imprint of fingers around her throat.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to push the thought away, grabbing him by his belt, dragging him well across the room since the chains slid easily along the pipes. He tried to kick out, but his legs were bound with rope.

When they were far enough away from Ivan so they could not be overheard, Mishca reached behind him, pulling out a gleaming silver barrette, checking the clip, eyeing the bullets he would eventually plug into the man after he was done with him. It was a special gun, the first one he had ever bought, the serial number layered off.

Over the years, he had never had the pleasure of using it. He couldn’t think of a better time than now.

He showed it to the bound man. “This is for later, after I’ve cut of your fingers and made you suffer.”

Anatoly still remained stubbornly silent, but his eyes gave him away. He wasn’t able to mask his fear.

“Tell me. What were your orders?”

Vlad brought over a tool kit, setting it up on the table. Mishca shrugged out of his jacket, passing it over to Vlad. He snapped on a pair of latest gloves, retrieving a boycotter from the kit. He unravels a long, plastic tarp, laying it out on the floor, shifting it so it was beneath Anatoly and wide enough to catch any blood splatter.

He took the blade to Anatoly’s shirt, cutting it down the middle and exposing his chest. He had the mark of the Bratva over his heart, a sign that made him untouchable.

Mishca held the boycotter up. “Talk.”

“Ya ne predam moy kapitan,” he said looking from the blade and back up.

Mishca smirked. He didn’t want to betray his Captain? “Where is he now, your Captain? Why is he not here to vouch for you?”

Anatoly shook his head, staring straight ahead, refusing to answer again.

“Fine.”

Mishca took the blade, slashing it across the mark on his chest, ripping his flesh open. Anatoly screamed, thrashing against his bonds, trying to escape the pain. When the mark was distinctly disfigured, Mishca dropped it on the plastic wrap.

Balling his fist, Mishca slugged him in the jaw, enjoying the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his fist. He didn’t pause, landing another blow to his other cheek, then one in his side, his gut, and another to his solar pled.

Mishca wan’t even winded.

Anatoly grunted in pain after the third hit, gritting his teeth to take the onslaught of blows. When Mishca finally gave him a reprieve, Anatoly spat out the blood coating his teeth.

“You don’t have to answer,” Mishca said wiping his brow. “Like our tattoos, your body tells the story.” He got in his face, making sure that he had his full attention. “How many times did you hit her? How many times did she beg you to stop? How many times did she…”