Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(45)

“Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy, solnyshko,” he says into my ear. “Ya ne pozvolyu nikomu zabrat' tebya.”

I smile and lean in to kiss his left eyebrow. Then I move to the right side of his face and trace my finger down the line of the thickest scar, from the top of his forehead, all the way to his chin.

“You are . . . so badass . . . husband.” I kiss his right eyebrow, then the corner of his right eye. He doesn’t move away. I kiss it again.

“And you are so crazy, dusha moya.” He sighs.

“Only . . . for you . . . Mikhail.”

He places his finger on my lips. “Enough. Stop hurting yourself.”

I smile and slide my hand down his chest. “Make . . . me.”





Chapter 17





I read the message from our Mexico contact and call Roman right away.

“Angelo Scardoni is moving the product,” I say the moment he answers the call. “What do you want me to do?”

“Do you have an ETA when they’ll cross the border?”

“Sometime Thursday night.”

“Find a good spot to intercept them after they cross. Blow them up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Bruno torched down my warehouse. Anton is still in the hospital with third-degree burns. I want that product gone.”

“Alright.”

“And make sure they know it was us,” Roman says and cuts the call.

I put my phone back into my pocket, take a chair and place it in front of a man sitting with his hands and legs tied in the middle of the room. His palms are turned up, showing his red, blistered skin.

I sit down, lean back, and regard the Italian bastard in front of me. Early twenties, a bit overweight, wearing jeans and a designer T-shirt. He doesn’t look like a street thug. Probably someone’s nephew—a few steps removed and looking for a way to rise in rank by taking on a job of burning down the Bratva’s warehouse. Idiot. And based on the way his eyes are staring at me, huge and unblinking, scared shitless.

“So, you like burning things, Enzo?” I nod toward his burned hands. “You need more practice.”

He’s mumbling something I can’t understand over the gag in his mouth. Doesn’t matter, he’s not ready to give me the information I need. Not yet. I’m giving him fifteen minutes tops.

“Burned skin hurts like a bitch. Just the lightest touch and the pain pierces you all the way to the spine. Let me show you.” I lean in to press my thumb lightly in the middle of Enzo’s palm.

He jumps in the chair so hard he almost topples to the side, and there is this wheezing sound coming through the rag in his mouth, like an animal caught in a snare.

“You know, I really hate torturing people,” I say. “It’s time-consuming and messy and, in the end, everyone talks. It would be nice if we could skip the messy part because the blood is a bitch to wash away. Do you know how many of my suits ended up in the trash this month? Four.” I lean my elbows on my knees and regard him. “I like this suit, Enzo. I would appreciate it if you would just tell me what I need to know, and I’ll let you go. Simple as that.”

I take one of the smaller knives lined up on the metal table next to me and pointedly examine the blade. When I turn toward Enzo and put the tip of the knife above his palm, he starts fighting the restraints like a madman. He’s shaking his head, trying to say something, but I ignore his thrashing and slash his burned skin in a long line, diagonally across his palm. He manages to scream even with the gag pressed into his mouth. I lean back in my chair again, take a sip from the water bottle I keep on the table, and wait for him to come down.

Enzo stops thrashing after a minute or so and sags in his chair, breathing heavily through his nose. I wait for a few more minutes, then reach for a box of matches on the other side of the table.

“So, we’ve tested touch and the knife so far.” I take one match out, light it up and hold it in front of Enzo’s face. “You think that was painful?”

He nods his head and starts to cry.

“It’s nothing compared to having an open flame touching skin that was already burned.”

A wet stain appears on Enzo’s jeans while he watches the burning match, his eyes bloodshot. I let go of the match, and it falls in the puddle of piss on the floor between Enzo’s feet, missing his hand by just a few inches.

“Well, looks like my sight is not what it once was.” I sigh. “Good thing we have a whole box.”

I reach for the box of matches again, take out another one, then look up at Enzo.

“Or, maybe, we could talk now? Tell me, Enzo, how much time do you think passed since I came in? An hour? More maybe?” I light the match and raise my hand. “It’s been eight minutes. Time passes slowly when you are in pain. So, here is what we’ll do. I’ll remove the gag. You’ll talk. If I think you are lying or leaving anything out, I put the gag back and it will stay on for two more hours. You don’t want to be in the same room with me for two hours, Enzo.”

I lean forward until my face is right in front of his.

“You see, I haven’t even started with you yet. This had just been the two of us getting to know each other, and me gauging your pain threshold. It’s really low, Enzo. This means I would probably start with your nails, then move on to your fingers and teeth. I assume it would take the two hours I mentioned, and I’m sure you’ll sing like a bird when I take the gag off after that. But you won’t have any fingers or teeth left then. I think you should take the choice I'm offering.”