Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(102)

Markel grumbles to himself, storming off.

“You will have to excuse my brother,” Aristov says. “He is usually our voice of reason, but he is a little upset tonight. A certain little *cat clawed him when he tried to bring her home.”

Seven clears his throat behind me, saying, “Morgan.”

“Morgan,” Aristov repeats with a dry laugh. “Such a plain name for someone so… colorful.”

The way he words that makes my muscles twitch. It was deliberate, without a doubt.

“Anyway, join me,” Aristov says, moving aside, motioning into the house.

I step past him, right inside.

I know what you’re thinking. Idiot, right? Walking into another lion’s den, like it’s nothing. But something you ought to know is this isn’t the first time I’ve done it. A lion is more comfortable in his home, surrounded by his pride, and when he gets comfortable, his guard goes down. He’s confident, which becomes cocky, because he thinks he can’t be touched, and cocky turns into careless, which works to my advantage.

Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?

He shoots me, BANG, dead?

I’ll just come back and haunt the son of a bitch.

Seven follows me inside, and I see him visibly tense when Aristov shuts the door, taking the time to secure all the locks and rearm the alarm system.

“Join me in the den,” Aristov says, glancing at me. “We can speak privately there.”

I follow him with Seven on my heels the entire way.

As soon as we step inside, Aristov’s gaze flickers to Seven. “I will not harm your boss. Promise. So you can relax, help yourself to a drink in the kitchen, make yourself at home.”

“I’ll pass,” Seven says, a hard edge to his voice.

Aristov smiles. “Suit yourself, Mister Pratt.”

Pratt.

Bruno Pratt is Seven’s given name, something they clearly know. Aristov did his homework. He knows more than he should.

Reaching to the floor, Aristov grabs a black duffel bag and drops it on top of a square wooden table, surrounded by leather furniture. It lands with a thud. He unzips it, shoving it open, flashing the contents.

Money.

A lot of money.

Stacks and stacks of money.

“A million dollars,” he says, matter of fact, answering an unasked question as he takes a seat in one of the chairs. “All hundred dollar bills.”

My gaze shifts from the money to Aristov. “You doubled the reward.”

He nods. “All you have to do is give me her location so I can bring her home.”

“Home, huh? She told me home was a white house with a red door and wood floors. This doesn’t really fit the bill, Aristotle.”

His expression freezes on his face, his smile like plastic. “That was never her home.”

“You sure about that?”

He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “My sweet girl, she does not know what is best for her.”

“But you do?”

“Of course. Everything I do is for her own good.”

This is for your own good. How many times did I hear those words? Too many, and never once were they genuine. For your own good was synonymous with violence in my life for way too many years.

“What do you want her for?” Seven asks, chiming in. “That’s a lot of money. She must’ve done something to deserve it.”

Aristov looks at him. “You are married, Mr. Pratt, correct? You have a family, yes?”

Seven doesn’t answer, just staring at him, but that’s as good as a ‘yes’ to Aristov.

“I imagine you do everything for them,” Aristov continues. “I am the same way. We are not much different. I do what I must for the ones I love.”

“You love her?” Seven asks. “That’s what you’re saying?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Aristov says. “I love the suka to death.”

Suka.

That word sticks to my mind.

“Seven, why don’t you go get that drink,” I suggest. “Give me a moment alone with him.”

Seven hesitates, like he doesn’t want to go, but he walks out after a moment, leaving me.

Strolling over, I sit down in an empty chair near Aristov, already tired of this little game he’s trying to play. I help myself to a bottle of liquor from the table, examining the label. Russian. “Vodka, I’m guessing?”

Aristov regards me curiously. “Of course.”

It’s half-empty, piss warm, but it doesn’t matter. I crack it open, taking a swig straight from the bottle, and hiss at the intense burn that hits my chest when I swallow.

Aristov laughs. “Good?”

“Strong.”

He swipes the bottle from me and takes a big drink, guzzling it like he’s sucking down water.

“Vodka is like a woman,” he says, pulling bottle from his lips.

“The rougher, the better?”

He offers it to me again. “So you understand.”

Shrugging, I take it back, taking another sip, letting the burn buzz through my system. My tolerance is pretty damn high, since Cuban rum flows through my blood on the regular, but Russian vodka is a whole different ballgame. It’s like gasoline. Paint thinner. I can feel it, my body humming. I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants. He thinks we’re bonding. He thinks if I get drunk, I’ll slip up, but he doesn’t know me.