Page 106 of Twisted Enemy
“You’ve given me so many choices,” I remind him. “Eighteen years ago, in that green-tiled jacks. One week ago, in that Dover motel. Now I’m doing the same for you. You can end yourmiserable excuse for a life with a bullet in your brain. Or you can live for many more years without your balls.”
“That’s not a choice.”
“Of course it’s a choice. End it cleanly, without much pain. Or explain to the entire Tarasov bratva that you chose to be tied up like a dog. You chose to wear that filthy dress. You chose life as a eunuch over an honorable death.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His teeth start to clatter so hard he can barely get the words out. “You d— don’t know the f— f— first thing about honor.”
“I did, once upon a time. When I was a little girl. Before someone broke me. Before they made me feral.”
“You’re a fucking lunatic!”
I look at him sadly. “I’m the fucking lunatic you created.”
Tarasov cranes his neck to look at Cole. “Wolf! You’re letting her do this?”
Cole turns around. “Of course not,” he says. “You’reletting her. It’s your choice.”
Tarasov shudders, like a massive dog throwing off rain. “The bratva will kill you for this,” he says to me.
“I’m terrified.”
“Your Canton Crew can’t protect you.”
“I never thought they would.”
“Your father’s a fucking vegetable. Your mother spread her legs for me, same as she did for half the bratva. She won’t save you now.”
“I don’t need saving.”
He splutters for a moment, clearly digging for more bile. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised when he starts to weep. “Lisichka.I never meant to hurt you. I was a stupid kid.”
“You were a bratva brigadier, old enough to negotiate on your pakhan’s behalf.Iwas the child.”
“You and I raided together. CyberGhost… You can’t forget all that.”
“I. Forget. Nothing. You raped me. You broke into my home. You filmed me debasing myself because you thought you had the upper hand. Which reminds me…”
I wait until he moans, “What?”
“Viktor. The software I gave you, that I said I stole from Cole? It’s a fake. It built a log of every site you went to. Your father will know every word you gave the feds about the bratva.”
His groan is louder than I ever dreamed he could manage. It’s the sound of a man standing at the gaping gates of hell.
“Enough,” I say. “Choose. Or else it’s bollocks first and then the bullet.”
“Go ahead,” he finally says. “Cut me.”
I have a ritual, rules I followed for every crimson scar upon my thighs.
Standing in front of the weeping Tarasov, I divide my hair into three thick sections. I braid them rapidly, end over end, tugging just enough to be certain the plait will stay in place. Inside my head, a bell rings, bright and clear.
Hair secure, I cross to the hose that curls against the wall. I wash my hands three times, rubbing hard on each pass. I don’t have soap, and I have to dry my hands on my T-shirt, but the bell chimes again. I’ve done enough.
I select a scalpel from my leather case. It’s a new one, clean. I never use a blade a second time. I test the edge against my thumb, pressing just hard enough to raise a red line. It’s sharp, exactly as it’s meant to be. For the third time, the bell echoes through my brain.
The leather case holds a tiny flask of alcohol, along with balls of cotton wool. I soak one in the clear fluid, and the sharp scent burns the inside of my nostrils. Holding the dripping cottonbetween two fingers, I collect scalpel, needle, and thread and cross the room to kneel beside my prisoner.
He yelps when the cold liquid hits his flesh. His bollocks try to hide inside his body, but I take my time, rubbing them, cleansing them. My belly tightens in disgust as I shift his limp dick out of the way. I nearly sob with relief when the bell confirms my task is done.
