Page 173 of Ivory Ashes

“It’s your job to do as I tell you. You stopped working for my father six years ago and you fucking know it.” I spin him around and crack the gun across his face. A gash opens across his cheekbone, spewing blood. He scrambles to shield himself from another blow. “Tonight didn’t happen because you were confused about your duties. Tonight was you starting a war with me. Now, I want to know why.”

“You’re going to kill me either way,” he says, spitting blood onto the pavement. “Might as well get it over with.”

I wedge the gun under his chin, leaning in close. “I’ll kill you if I’m feeling merciful—if you earn it. Keeping you chained in the basement until Anatoly is well enough to get his own revenge is another option I’m toying with.”

His eyes flare with panic. He’s seen firsthand what Anatoly is capable of.

“Do I need to remind you that you killed his girlfriend?”

Something like regret flashes in Pyotr’s eyes. “I didn’t know they were—Anatoly must have told Stella his plan. She saw me messing with the car you’d loaded with supplies and tried to stop me. It was his fault that she was in my way.”

“Go ahead and tell him that when he comes to find you in the dungeon. He’ll love hearing how it was his fault that you murdered his woman and shot him in the chest.”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he mutters. “Anatoly fucks up and you still can’t find fault with him.”

I choke him with the barrel, crushing his windpipe against the wall. “He didn’t ‘fuck up.’ He got shot by someone he trusted. Our only mistake was calling you a friend.”

And letting myself get distracted. Maybe if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with Viviana, I would have noticed that Pyotr was a spy.

Pyotr chokes out a laugh. “A friend? Do you treat all your friends like servants? I’ve worked for you for six years and I’ve never been invited to a family dinner. You were happy keeping me under your foot. I was never going to move up the ranks.”

I blink at him. “This is about jealousy? You’re mad that you and I aren’t best fucking pals?”

He juts his chin out, looking every bit like an oversized child. “Considering you are the spare son who claimed the title you wanted, I’d expect you to resonate with my circumstances. I didn’t plan to be a driver forever.”

“So you ask for a fucking promotion!” I snap. “You don’t kidnap my wife and child!”

“Iakov promised that he and I would reclaim the title. I was going to rule in Dante’s stead until he was old enough, and then?—”

I laugh in his face. “You thought my father was going to let you lead? God, it’s even more pathetic than I thought. You’re a fucking idiot.”

“He was lonely,” Pyotr spits. “He lost all of his sons for one reason or another. I became a substitute of sorts. On long drives, he confided in me. We became close. He and I both agreed that Trofim was the right choice and that Iakov should reclaim his position to save the Bratva; we just didn’t see a way to unite the men behind an aging figurehead when you had already fucked everything up so much. Then Dante came along. I was actually the one to suggest the idea, and Iakov?—”

“My father made you feel like a special little boy,” I sneer. “He played you for the fool you are and made you believe that he would reward you for betraying me. You did his dirty work. Now, he has my wife and son and you are being hung out to dry. There’s no world in which you were ever going to be even a temporary pakhan.”

Pyotr sags against the wall as realization dawns.

“You might as well play him back and tell me where he took Viviana and Dante.”

“He tricked me,” Pyotr whispers to himself.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I wouldn’t usually check messages in the middle of an interrogation, but Pyotr looks like he’s going to be sick. I’m not worried about him running away.

I found them. He’s holding them at your old house. Finish up and meet me there.

I force down the rage, stowing it away for later, and lower my gun to Pyotr’s stomach.

“Wait!” he gasps. “I’ll tell you?—”

“I don’t need anything from you anymore.” I pull the trigger and he hunches over, screaming as hot blood coats my hand. “That’s for Anatoly.”

I step back and shoot one kneecap, my ears still ringing from the first shot. “That’s for Stella.”

As he clutches one leg, I take aim at the other. “That’s for Dante.”

He sinks to the ground, weeping as his ruined legs splay wide. I aim directly between them and fire.

Once the screaming dies down, I say, “And that is for touching my wife.”

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