Page 64 of His Savage Vow
“It’s one of the men the police picked up at the airport. Once they ran his fingerprints, they realizedhe’s a Bratva captain who works just under Volkov. My crew will be there to intercept him and bring him here as soon as he walks out. We’ll make him talk.” His tone is grim and cold, not at all the voice of the man who holds me in his arms and makes love to me. This is the voice of the man who runs this empire. One who is hurting while his cousin is fighting for his life.
I swallow hard. “And if he doesn’t talk?”
Maximo’s eyes darken. “Then he’ll burn and bleed until he does.”
A chill slides down my arms. The man who held me in a hospital bed and whispered to me is gone; this is Maximo Luciani, the one people fear.
The plan unfolds exactly as he says. A few hours later, Spicy Molini arrives. He’s a short, broad-shouldered man with tattoos creeping up his neck, peeking just over the collar of his shirt. He has an easy smile that’s undercut by the cruelty in his small, beady eyes. His men drag in the Bratva soldier, still stinking of urine and disinfectant from jail, and throw him into a chair in the basement.
I stand in the darkness of the far corner, silent and watching.
The torture is ugly, stomach-turning, the kind of thing you can’t unsee. I press a hand to the wall to steady myself. I’m not made for this. Or at least I wasn’t.
The man resists at first, sneering, pretending he doesn’t know anything. But losing a body part loosens your tongue, and by the time Spicy is through, the man is babbling.
“Kirill,” he gasps. “He’s staying at the docks. On the yacht. Alexei’s getting ready to sail. They’re gonna get out before your people pin them down. Another city, another plane. Somewhere out of your reach. You’ll never catch them if you wait.”
He slumps, trembling against the zip ties holding him to the chair. Then he turns his swollen, bloodshot eyes on me. I cantell he recognizes me when his expression changes. He cringes away in guilt, or desperation. “Monroe’s,” he whispers. “You’re the daughter. Is that what this is all about? The fire? Please, what happened with your father was an accident. He wasn’t supposed to end up dead. We just wanted to grab the drop, take the cash, and burn the rest to cover our tracks. Pellegrini was going to fake a ledger; make it look like Monroe was double-dealing with the Chinese. It went sideways when he confronted us and we had to knock him out.”
My heart feels as if it comes to a complete stop. “You were there?” I whisper.
“We didn’t mean for him to die.” His voice cracks. “It was an accident. We figured if we left him, he would get out on his own or get rescued. The fire…”
This was one of the men directly responsible for my father’s death.
I see my dad’s kind, smiling face, smell the smoke, and feel the horror all over again. My hands shake, but not with fear or adrenaline. This is pure fury.
The casual way he says it, the assumption that my father would simply save himself, hits harder than the details of the fire.
“You fucking left him behind on purpose!” I exclaim. “You made no effort to save him. You lit the match, chained the doors, and walked away!”
He bows his head. “We never meant?—”
I don’t hear the rest. My eyes flick over to the wall just outside the small basement room, where a Glock like the one Maximo gave me is mounted along with dozens of other guns. I stalk over and wrap my hand around it, then load a clip, and rack the slide.
I walk back over to the bastard, the weight of the weapon inmy hand reassuring, almost comforting as my grief and anger rage uncontrollably in my chest.
“Maximo,” I say, my voice like ice. “Do you think he has anything else useful to say?”
Maximo’s gaze lingers on me, unreadable, but with a small shake of his head he steps back and motions for his men to do the same.
That’s enough. I don’t need his permission to avenge my father. I just need a clear line of sight.
I raise the Glock, aiming at the man’s chest, and squeeze the trigger. Not once, not even two in the chest and one in the head. I unload the entire clip into his center mass. The shots echo, deafening in the enclosed room. The Bratva soldier jerks under the initial impacts, then slumps, lifeless, blood pooling beneath the chair, as I continue firing until I pull the trigger on an empty click.
My chest heaves, adrenaline thrumming through me like electricity.
I look over at Maximo, my hands quivering around the empty gun. I can’t believe how much lighter it feels and I feel after unloading my rage.
“Good.” Something dark flickers in Maximo’s eyes. Not fear or shock but approval. He nods to me as he steps over and gently takes the gun from my hands. “Then it’s done. And I’m glad to see you’re finally on board with killing these murderous thugs.”
“I didn’t come here to become a killer. But now I see it was always going to end this way. Even with everything that’s happening between us, I’ve never forgotten for a moment why I came to you, Maximo. I know it was the Volkovs who gave the order, regardless of whether they meant for my father to die. This won’t be settled for either of us until they’re dealt with once and for all.”
“Then by all means…” Maximo smiles back at me. “Let me make some calls to the dockmaster and track down this yacht they’re supposedly using to leave town. Then we can see about continuing your…therapy against the men who have wronged you. Wrongedus. Let’s finish this together, Constance, you and me. And then…”
“We can worry about the rest once the Volkovs are dead,” I finish the thought for him.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he replies before motioning to his men. “Wrap this body and load it up. We’re heading to the pier later anyway. Let’s get rid of all of them at once.”
