Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(75)

“Talia’s death was quick,” Alexei murmurs. “But I can assure you that yours won’t be.”

Sergei’s lips twitch at the corners, offering his firstborn son a bloody gruesome smile. Even on the verge of death, his ego lives large.

Alexei gestures to the Irish Reaper, and Ronan hands him the small black case that will inevitably end Sergei’s reign of terror. Already, he has been waterboarded, suffocated, and brought back to life with shock paddles several times. His eyes are cloudy, and his face is sallow, but he won’t admit defeat.

If either of us expected an apology, it isn’t coming. But I don’t want Sergei’s wasted words. I only want his death.

Alexei’s fingers clamp onto the black case, and I know he wishes that he could be the one to end our father’s life. Rightfully, he probably should. Though Sergei is responsible for the death of my mother, he has taken much more from my brother.

In the end, he hands me the case. “You can do the honors.”

It isn’t an honor at all to end a dishonorable man’s life. But there is a purpose for everything, and the purpose of this is that it will hurt Sergei the most. He doesn’t care for Alexei, and he never has, but he does care for me, on some level at least. I’m the son he was proud of. The one who he claimed.

And I’m the son who will lay him to rest in the brutal fashion he deserves.

There is no reason to draw it out when I have a busy schedule ahead of me. I remove the syringe from the case without fanfare, and for a split second, there is fear in Sergei’s eyes. Not equal to the fear my mother felt as a consequence of his actions. And not equal to what Alexei’s wife must have felt before her death. But it’s there, and it’s enough.

Ronan assists me, instructing me where to inject the snake venom in Sergei’s arm. It’s too quick, and it isn’t as intimate as it would have been to flay him in half with a blade, but it will be a long, painful death.

As the neurotoxins flood Sergei’s body, he begins to convulse and foam at the mouth. When paralysis sets in, Alexei leans over him to whisper in his face. “It is only the beginning.”

We sit, and for hours, we watch our father die. The room is quiet, save for the thrashing of Sergei’s body on the table. Viktor is at Alexei’s side, and Ronan is at mine. The event is entirely too short, and it doesn’t bring my brother any peace when Sergei finally gasps his last breath.

In truth, it does nothing for me either.

I leave Alexei to process his grief, and Viktor follows me into the hall, shutting the door behind us.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Kol’ka.”

“It’s not a loss.”

“But it does not bring you relief as you had hoped, does it?”

“It doesn’t bring my mother back,” I tell him. “Nor does it bring Alexei’s wife back.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees. “Shall we get on with the next one then?”

I nod, and we walk upstairs together. Alexei’s home is vast and well secured, but for this particular occasion, the event will take place in a secluded thicket located on the back half of the estate.

The walk is not a short distance, but the air is refreshing and despite the gruesomeness that awaits, it’s a beautiful day. Already, Ronan has set everything up, and we find him waiting on a bench while Manuel squirms on the ground in front of him. This is just another day for the Irish Reaper, and there is none more skilled in the art of human torture than he is. It’s why I’ve asked for his assistance, and because of our alliance, he was inclined to provide it.

Before I spare Manuel a second glance, my attention is drawn to the fifty-five-gallon barrel in the center of the clearing. A short distance away, there’s also a fire roaring beneath a cast iron kettle straight from the history books. These items are Manuel’s future, and not too far away is his past—a plastic tarp littered with bloodied power tools. In truth, I don’t have the stomach for torture, but over the past twenty-four hours, I’ve checked in often to witness Ronan’s work.

Like my canvases, he approaches every piece differently. While he stuck to the tried and true methods of torture for Sergei, he got a little more creative with Manuel. Specifically, he seemed to have some fun with a power drill. I watched him drill into Manuel’s knees, which was enough for me, and I took his word for it that he also made some new holes in his hips and elbows.

That wasn’t the extent of it. A sandblaster made quick work on half of his face, and a staple gun has been put to good use on the fleshier parts of his body. But I couldn’t forget my Nakya in all of this. I couldn’t forget the ways he made her suffer. For that part, I was the one to shatter his ankles with a hammer.

Manuel has reaped what he’s sown in this life, and for that, I have no regrets. I can’t bring my mother back, but I can send her tormentor to hell.

“Are you ready?” Ronan asks.

I nod in the direction of the large black cauldron. “What’s the kettle for?”

“I wasn’t particularly sure how you’d want to go about it,” he says. “We could boil him or light him on fire. Your choice, really.”

I look at Manuel—hogtied, dirty, sweaty, and covered in blood. Already he is unrecognizable. If Nakya knew the extent of what I did to him, she would never forgive me.