Page 67 of Satin Empire

She nods and doesn’t argue. I know what it’s like to go through something terrible, and even if I’m hardened against it from a long life of violence and pain, I know what most people need.

We’re quiet for a little while. I’d think she’s asleep, but I can tell by her breathing that she’s not. She finally breaks the silence, her fingernails scratching down my back, making me shiver.

“When we started this, you said maybe we’d get divorced when the war’s over. And you’re closer to finding Jasha now, aren’t you? That’s why you’re going over to your family’s place in the morning, right?”

“That’s right,” I say, hating myself for ever agreeing to something so damn stupid. Why did I think my life would be half as good without her?

“Do you still want that? The divorce, I mean. Because of what you said—” She bites her lip, not looking at me, and my heart’s racing in my chest.

“I don’t want to let you go. When you asked if I’m going to keep you, I meant what I said. You’re mine now, baby.”

“Okay,” she says.

I stare at her. It’s so simple. Just one word. Okay. But the implications are everything to me, and I have so much I want to say to her right now—except I don’t want to fuck things up by scaring her off. So instead of admitting that I’m falling deeply and madly for her, I just hug her close and hold her, and we finally drift off to sleep, that one word ringing through my brain. Okay.

Chapter 34

Carlo

Saul looks grim as we stand at the top of the stairs leading into the basement. Alana’s in the kitchen with the girls and the kids, and even though I know she’s in the safest place in the whole world at the moment, some animalistic part of me wants to make sure she never leaves my side again.

“You want to know something?” he asks as we descend the steps. “I never liked torture.”

I laugh and slap his back when we reach the bottom. “Does anyone? I bet your victims hate it even more than you do.”

He gives me a hard look. “I’m just saying, I understand that it’s necessary and sometimes it gets results, but there’s something barbaric about the whole fucking thing. I’m hoping that once this business with the Russians is done, we can lay down arms and go back to being humans again.”

I want to make some joke, but I understand what he means. That’s what war does to people—it turns them into beasts, into creatures that can only think about survival. Humanity ceases to matter when everything is a life-and-death struggle. The man tied to the chair in the middle of the soundproof room isn’t a person to me right now—he’s a sack of meat that nearly killed my wife, and maybe Saul’s feeling a little sentimental at the moment, but I’m not.

He’s asleep when we come into the room. I wake him up by kicking his chair over. The fucker’s head hits the floor and he groans as he comes back to consciousness.

“Good morning,” I say, dragging him back upright.

He looks at me like a monkey staring down the mouth of a starving lion. “Go fuck yourself,” he says in Russian and I hit him hard for that.

“Don’t be cute,” I say, also in Russian, and that makes his face turn pale. “Yes, I speak some of your dog-shit language. Tell me where Jasha’s hiding.”

“I don’t know.” He holds his chin up like he’s going to hide behind his pride.

I walk to a table. It’s already set up with implements: hammer, knives, scissors, scalpels. I grab a pair of extremely sharp shears and carry them over to my friend. I nod at Saul, and he knows what I want. We’ve done this before.

“I’m going to make you an offer. You can tell me where Jasha is, or I’m going to cut off your hands. But I’m going to do it knuckle by knuckle. That’s three cuts per finger and two on the thumb. If that doesn’t work, I’ll do your toes next, and then I’ll cut off your ears, and your nose, and your tongue, and gouge out your eyes, and if none of that works, the real pain will start. Now, I’ll ask one more time. Where’s Jasha?”

“Fuck you.”

Saul grabs his wrist. He tries to make a fist, but my brother pries his pointer finger out. I place the shears in the right spot and don’t hesitate. Blood spurts from the clean slice and a piece of him hits the floor.

He screams. I let him sob and gibber before asking again.

“We know about Camden. Which safe house is Jasha hiding in?”

“I don’t know,” he says, crying, and we repeat the process as promised.

I get through three fingers before he finally talks. Which isn’t bad, all things considered. Saul shows him the addresses we know about, and he points at the one where he last saw his boss.

I take the rest of his fingers. Saul doesn’t look happy about it, and the Russian sure as hell isn’t psyched, but I need to make sure he isn’t lying. Luckily for me, his story never changes: Jasha is in Camden, and he’s hiding in a safe house on Magnet Street.

“What should we do with him now?” Saul asks. The Russian’s crying quietly to himself. All of his fingers and thumbs are on the floor, his hands ugly, mutilated stumps.

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