Page 6 of Twisted Vows

With a sharp jerk, I dragged him toward the exit, his feet stumbling over the debris that littered the floor. Malachi followed close behind, his captive held in a similarly unforgiving grip.

The night air was a welcome respite from the stifling confines of the bar, but it did little to dissipate the tension that crackled between us like static electricity. We moved swiftly, our footsteps echoing against the damp pavement as we navigated the alleys and backstreets.

The safehouse, newly acquired after our roster was compromised, loomed ahead. It was a nondescript building that blended seamlessly into the urban landscape. Malachi tapped out a coded sequence on the door panel, and it swung open with a groan of rusted hinges.

Inside, the air was stale and musty, the scent of disuse and neglect filling my nostrils. We hauled our captives into the dimly lit interior, their protests muffled by the thick walls that surrounded us.

“Make yourselves comfortable.” Malachi sneered, shoving one of the men into a rickety chair. “You’re going to be here for a while.”

The man spat a gob of blood and phlegm at Malachi’s feet, his eyes burning with defiance. “You think you can break us? We’re not afraid of you or your pathetic bratva.”

Malachi’s fist connected with the man’s jaw in a wet crunch, his head snapping back with the force of the blow. “You should be afraid because by the time we’re done with you, you’ll be begging for death.”

I secured the other man to a chair, his struggles futile against the tight restraints. His gaze darted around the room, taking in the bare walls and the sparse furnishings that spoke of the room’s singular purpose.

“You won’t get anything from us,” he said, his bravado a thin veneer over the fear that flickered in his eyes.

I leaned in close. “We’ll see about that.”

The door creaked open, and a trio of bratva enforcers stepped into the room, their expressions grim and impassive. These were men who had seen the darkest depths of human depravity, their souls hardened by the brutality of their trade, and they were all very good at it.

Malachi nodded to them. “Do what you have to do,” he said without inflection.

The enforcers set to work without a word, their movements methodical and precise. They laid out an array of tools on a battered table—pliers, knives, a blow torch, and other implements whose purposes were better left unspoken.

The Armenians’ eyes widened as they took in the grim tableau. The bravado of the one I had brought in faltered in the face of the impending ordeal. “Wait,” he stammered, his voice trembling, “We can talk about this.”

It was too late for that. His pleas fell on deaf ears, drowned out by the ominous clink of metal against metal as the enforcers prepared their instruments of persuasion.

Malachi and I retreated to the shadows, our presence a silent reminder of the consequences that awaited those who dared to defy the bratva’s authority. The room descended into a macabre symphony of grunts and muffled cries, punctuated by the sickening crunch of bone, and the wet slap of flesh against flesh.

Time seemed to blur and distort, the minutes stretching into an eternity of agony and desperation. The Armenians’ defiance crumbled like a sandcastle before the relentless tide of the enforcers’ interrogation, their cries escalating into anguished wails that echoed off the bare walls.

Through it all, Malachi and I remained impassive observers, our expressions betraying no hint of the turmoil that roiled beneath the surface. This was the price of power, the currency of our world—a brutal, unforgiving realm, where weakness was a luxury we could ill afford.

At last, the enforcers stepped back, their work complete. The Armenians slumped in their chairs, broken and bloodied, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of their ordeal.

Malachi strode forward, his footsteps echoing like the tolling of a funeral bell. He crouched before one of the men, his fingers curling beneath the man’s chin to tilt his battered face upward. “Tell me what I want to know.”

The man’s lips parted, his words a hoarse whisper that carried the weight of a thousand shattered dreams. “The roster is hidden in a safe beneath the floorboards of Petrosian’s office.”

I was unsurprised to hear the name of the Armenians’ leader. Armen Petrosian was in charge, but Levon Terzien was his captain, and we'd surely have to deal with him before this was over. Malachi’s gaze flickered to me. We had the key to unraveling the Armenian’s operations and restoring the balance of power that had been so brutally disrupted.

With a terse nod, Malachi rose to his feet, his expression inscrutable. “Clean this up,” he said to the enforcers.

Malachi and I moved swiftly through the night-shrouded streets, eager to reclaim what was ours. The Armenian’s words still rang in my ears, the location of the elusive roster seared into my memory.

We approached Petrosian’s office with the stealth of seasoned predators, our senses attuned to the slightest hint of movement or sound. Ostensibly, he was a businessman and operated out of a sleek commercial building. In no time, the building loomed before us, its facade a mask of innocuous normalcy that belied the secrets it harbored within.

Malachi’s gaze met mine, a silent exchange passing between us. With a nod, he took the lead, his broad shoulders cutting through the shadows like a knife through silk.

With our technology, the keypad and electronic lock offered no deterrent to keep us out. We slipped inside quietly.

The office was a study in austerity, its bare walls and sparse furnishings a stark contrast to the opulence one might expect from a man of Petrosian’s stature, but we knew better. The true wealth lay hidden, buried beneath layers of deception and misdirection.

Malachi’s eyes scanned the room, his gaze settling on a worn Persian rug that lay in the center of the floor. Without a word, he crossed the room and knelt, his fingers probing the edges of the rug until they found purchase. With a grunt of effort, he peeled back the rug, revealing a trapdoor set into the floorboards. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he pried it open, the hinges groaning in protest.

Beneath the trapdoor lay a small safe, its steel casing gleaming dully in the dim light. Malachi’s fingers danced over the combination lock, his brow furrowed in concentration as he put in the sequence one of the informants had given us under duress.

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