Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(76)

“Which one hurts the most?” Viktor asks.

Ronan scratches at his chin. “Ahh, I’d say they’re about equal. Boiling takes longer, of course, but fire is as effective if it’s pain ye want.”

Viktor looks at me. It’s my decision, and it’s an easy one. I’m done with this pig, and it’s time to bury him. “Let’s make some stew then.”

Ronan nods and gestures for some help. Between the three of us, we lift Manuel’s mangled body easily enough. He can’t move. He can’t fight. But he can look at me with his one good eyeball, and he does.

“She’ll rat you out too,” he slurs. “Just watch.”

I’m tempted to dunk his head into the boiling oil and hold him there for a few seconds before Viktor stops me.

“That’s what he wants.”

He’s right, of course. Manuel would do anything at this point to end his suffering in the easiest way possible, including taking his daughter down with him.

“Easy does it,” Ronan says as we lower Manuel into the kettle, legs first. “We don’t want to splash, might hurt a wee bit.”

As it turns out, he’s quite comfortable with this method, and I’m almost positive it’s not the first man he’s boiled alive. On Ronan’s instruction, we all pull away at the same time, and the natural weight of Manuel’s body sinks him into the kettle.

His face bobs up and down in the oil, mouth split open in the shape of a silent scream. It’s an image I won’t ever forget, and a smell that will haunt me for eternity too. A price I’m willing to pay for vengeance.

Unlike Sergei, Manuel’s death is much quicker. It feels like no time at all until his head disappears completely into the roiling liquid, and there’s nothing left to do but watch the flames flicker beneath.

After enough time has passed to be considered appropriate, Viktor clears his throat.

“You’ve had your vengeance because I’m a man of my word. Are you ready to prove that you are a man of yours?”

“Yes,” I answer.

I knew it would come, and I’m prepared to face my sentence, whatever Viktor determines it should be. Today, he will deem me worthy of my stars or worthy of the grave. It’s the Vory way.

Viktor nods. “Very well. It’s been a long day already. Let’s go to the club. The brothers are waiting.”





Viktor takes his place at the front of the room, face solemn as he glances into the collective audience of my Vory brothers. Already, my offenses have been laid bare, and for the past five minutes, silence has entombed us as they’ve considered every possible punishment. Some of which include the removal of my tongue, fingers, hands, or other appendages. Other options are carving the stars from my skin, flogging, beating, burning, branding, and if that weren’t enough, the room is always open for suggestions.

It’s only the beginning, and even after my punishment is handed down, I could still be sentenced to death. At the end of the day, it is the pakhan I have offended, and he is who I must answer to.

“Is there anyone who would like to speak on Nika’s behalf?” Viktor asks.

I am not surprised that Mischa is the first to stand. His eyes cut to mine as he testifies to my character, offering both my flaws and positive traits, and the loyalty he feels to me as a brother. He tells several stories that portray me in a positive light, and I’m not certain I deserve his kind words, but I’m grateful for them nonetheless.

“Thank you, Mischa.” Viktor gestures for him to sit down.

The proceedings continue with testimonies from several of my Vory brothers, those who I haven’t managed to piss off in some way or another over the years. When they have finished, Viktor directs attention to the front of the room again.

“Is there anyone who would like to speak against Nika?”

The room is quiet, and I half expect several of the men to air their dislike of my character, but none do.

“Very well, then.” Viktor adjusts his watch and loosens his collar, already preparing for what comes next. “You have heard the laws that Nika has broken. He has made a mockery of our code, and therefore, we must make an example of him. Every Vor must place his vote. Let’s start with Boris.”

Boris tips his chin in my direction, a sign of respect. “I vote flogging.”

The man next to him, an avtoritet, also nods in my direction. “Flogging.”

The votes continue around the table, unanimous in their decision.

Viktor signals to a bratok, issuing him an order to retrieve the wooden device reserved for such occasions. “The first punishment will be flogging,” he says. “Any nominations for a second?”

Again, the room is quiet. After enough time has passed, Viktor nods, and I breathe. Flogging is not a walk in the park, but it could be much worse.

The bratok wheels in the flogging station, and I take my place at the front of the room. Removing my shirt and tossing it aside, I step into position, facing the wooden crucifix. The bratok secures my wrists to each side, and my face rests flat against the wood as Viktor takes the whip in his hand. He will be the first and probably the worst.

Not one to draw it out, he steps behind me and cracks the whip in the air twice, testing the distance and loosening his wrist. The third is the one to hit me, and it feels like a tree branch cracking over my back. My body jolts forward on impact, but the wood prevents me from escaping the blow. The only thing to do is grit my teeth and bear it, aware that this too is a test. Should I show any emotion or weakness, I’ll be sentenced to death without a second thought.