I lowered my gaze to the trembling girl dripping tears to the floor. “I want names,” I said quietly. “The names of who helped you. The names of anyone who even heard a whisper of the conversation.”
“I—it was just me,” she cried.
“Look at me,” I demanded, and, rigidly, she lifted her gaze to mine. “You’re going to tell me the truth sooner or later. And the longer it takes, the more time my men will have to make good use of you.”
I really didn’t want to torture this slip of a girl, but I didn’t get to my position by being forgiving.
Anna swallowed, fighting an inward battle, and then she gave me three names. She didn’t say them with sadness or loyalty, but fear. The girl was afraid of her own shadow, so it didn’t mean much to me.
I nodded at Viktor. He grabbed the girl’s arm and dragged her from the room. Two of the men she’d named were here, the other—Abram, her papa—in Moscow.
Another annoying family affair.
Pasha wasn’t the only casualty instigated by Alexei’s hands. Abram’s uncle was killed last year in a hit-and-run. He was old enough he’d have probably died of heart failure if he got the chance.
“Find Abram,” I told Albert, who still stood by the door. “Put his son and nephew in the basement until then.”
Three hours passed, the sun high in the sky, before the four were lined up in the snow. The girl stood on the end, gaze to the ground, shaking in the basic white dress she wore every day.
“As I already told Albert, I didn’t have anything to do with it.” A drop of sweat ran down Abram’s face and glistened in the sun.
I raised a brow. “You don’t even know what you’ve been accused of, so how do you know you didn’t do it?”
“Because,” he sputtered, “I’ve been loyal to you from day one.”
“You want to know what I hate more than traitors?” I stepped closer to him, a gun lax in my hand. “Liars.”
“I’ve never lied to you.” His gaze flicked to the right exactly like a liar’s would. “Catch me in a lie, and I swear, I’ll let you shoot me in the head right here!”
“Hmm,” I drawled. “We’ll get to that.”
My eyes slid to the other two men, the son and nephew. One of them was just released from prison for raping a housewife. If I did background checks before recruiting, I wouldn’t have a single employee to my name, including myself. The men both flicked subtle glances at Abram, clearly the lackeys in his master plan.
“So you didn’t have anything to do with poisoning the Mikhailov collateral in my home?”
“What!” Abram had the audacity to act shocked. “Of course not!”
A dark chuckle escaped me. “Your acting skills could use some work.”
“I don’t know how I got wrapped up in the middle of this, but if it was the whore beside me who gave you our names, you should know, she’s just trying to take us down with her.”
“You mean, your daughter,” I corrected, gaze flicking to the girl who held her arm to her stomach like it needed support.
“She isn’t my daughter,” he spat. “Especially after this.”
I ignored the words. “Do you beat your daughter often?”
Something in my eyes made him lie again. “Nyet. She’s just a slut who likes it rough.”
I let the ridiculousness of his statement fill the air for a moment. My boots crunched in the snow as I walked toward the girl and stopped in front of her.
“Are you? A slut who likes it rough?”
She didn’t lift her eyes as she shook her head. Her papa’s face reddened, and then he kicked her leg, spitting an enraged accusation at her. With a whimper, she dropped to the ground. A hot rush of irritation expanded inside me. I kicked Abram’s knee so hard a crack sounded, and as he fell, my boot slammed into his face, planting him on his back in the snow. He groaned, blood spurting from his nose.
“If you do that to your daughter in front of me,” I growled, “I’d hate to see what you do to her behind closed doors.”
“I don’t do nothing to the girl!”
He’d just admitted his guilt with the double negative. I was growing a little more furious each second I continued to employ this man.
I lowered to my haunches in front of the girl who sat on her knees in the snow. “Who gave you the poison?”
Tears running down her cheeks, she flicked a frightful gaze to her papa for direction. She was terrified of him even now, with death on the horizon. Abram watched her with cruel eyes and a hand on his bleeding face.
“I—I did it alone,” she stammered.
“See! I told you.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Albert growled.
After putting my gun in my waistband, I ripped the girl’s dress open. Buttons fell to the snow. She sobbed, probably with the belief she’d be gang-raped to death. Her lack of bra wasn’t the most obvious sight. An assortment of old and fresh bruises covered her torso. One of her ribs looked inflamed, most likely broken, and bite marks marred her small breasts, some deep enough to be open wounds.
She might have been involved with the poisoning, but, clearly, she didn’t have much of a choice. Having been the underdog many, many years ago at my own mother’s hands, one could say I had a soft spot for the situation.
“Go,” I told her.
Her eyes lifted to mine, confusion within. After a second of staring at me, she stood, pulled her dress closed, and ran to the house.
“What the fuck?” Abram snarled. “She did this!”
I rose to my full height.
“She’s a whore! A lying whore!”
I aimed my gun at Abram’s head.
“Wait—” He didn’t get to finish whatever lie he was about to spew.
One after another, three pops cut through the air like a knife.
clinomania
(n.) an excessive desire to stay in bed
I thought Yulia was a bad maid, but that was before I had her as a nurse. She plumped the pillow beneath my head like she was beating a lump of dough and pulled a piece of my hair in the mix.
With a resentful glance, I shied away from her. “Thank you, but my pillow is fine.”
She raised a brow before sliding a mischievous look away to mess with the tray of food at my bedside.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
She ignored me and made a show of adding sugar to my tea. As if I’d ever drink tea again.
I’d stayed in bed for two days, and with each second that passed, I grew sicker of it. The only thing that kept me here was the knowledge someone in this house hated me so much they’d poisoned me. And then, my thoughts chanted I was an awful person for what happened to Adrik and that I deserved it.
My mind was a terrible place.
Yesterday, Kirill deemed me as good as new. Ronan, however, hadn’t shown his face since he carried me to my room and stripped me naked. I didn’t know what I expected. Certainly not an apology for what happened. But a simple, “Glad to see you’re not dead,” would be nice. He hadn’t even sent me a misogynistic note threatening me to eat.
Once again, it seemed I wasn’t a part of his thoughts, while he kept popping into my mind like a game of Whac-A-Mole—especially after he looked me in the eye and told me his mother drove him into a river when he was eight. I said I wouldn’t sympathize with him, but it was hard when he threw his tragic past in my face. I prayed Ronan wouldn’t talk about being an orphan living on the streets. Otherwise, I may as well just tie my hair back in preparation for signing over my soul.