Page 140 of Corrupted Heart

“Please!” he croaks. “Please! I have a wife!”

“You hit your wife, you piece of shit,” I grunt. “And you’re cheating on her. Try again.”

His croak turns into a gurgle as I shove his face back down into the toilet bowl. When I pull him out, he sputters, choking and wiping water and blood out of his eyes.

“If I die, they’ll go after her for the debt!”

Goddammit.

I exhale heavily.

Don’t get involved. Don’t get?—

“Who will,” I growl.

He swallows, his eyes darting around nervously.

“Deep breath…” I growl as I grab his hair.

“WAIT!”

My eyes narrow. “The Italians?”

A violent shake of his head.

“Not the Russians, surely…”

He smiles weakly, and I groan.

“You dumb motherfucker. You borrowed from the fucking Bratva?!”

He nods vigorously, looking ill.

“Who.”

His lips clamp shut.

“Tim, the next time you go in that toilet bowl, I’m fucking pissing in it at the same time. Who.”

If you knew me—the real me—you wouldn’t necessarily think I had any weak points. But I do: innocent bystanders. People who have the misfortune of being around fuckheads like Tim.

I might be perfectly content flushing his face in the toilet until he drowns. But he’s not wrong: if he croaks, the Russians will get the money he owes out of his wife, one way or another.

Tim squeals as I grab the back of his shirt and haul him, dripping toilet water, out of the stall and across the floor of the restroom. I slam him against the wall and let him crumple to the floor. Then I start to wash my hands.

“Chernoff!” he finally blubbers. “Boris Chernoff!”

I glare down at him.

You fucking idiot.

“Him and that fucking spooky witch of his!”

My brow furrows as I soap my hands. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know!” he cries. “Chernoff’s new attack dog. She’s like his new consigliere, or whatever that is for the Bratva!”

I have no idea who he’s talking about. But then, I don’t pay that much attention to Bratva shit.

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