Page 24 of Ruthless Vow

He huffs a dark laugh. “You could say that. We’ve had some disagreements with the Vasilievs. Why?”

“Because it was Chicago people on my yacht. In your city.”

“In my father’s city.”

Neither of us need to say more. Mikhail would never agree to have men from another syndicate stir up shit in his town. If he’d wanted me dead, he would have sent his own people to try to kill me. He would never have agreed to a rival group doing the hit on his turf.

“Two of them are staying just up the road at the Mojave Desert Inn,” I say, and allow myself to smile.

Nikolai smiles back. “Lead on,” he says.

We leave the cars and walk the mile to the motel, a low building with cracked and faded paint and a neon sign that flickers and gasps. The parking lot is dusty and unpaved, with only two cars parked at opposite ends. One of them is a rental car that’s parked in front of a room with partially open curtains, the light from the TV leaking through.

A glance inside reveals two men, one who appears to be sleeping, the other sitting up, watching TV.

I pull on gloves and slide my knife from its sheath at the small of my back, tipping my head to let Nikolai know I’ll take the man on the left. He nods and tips his head toward the guy on the right, the one who’s sleeping.

The sagging, sun-bleached door gives way under my boot.

As my target surges from the bed with a cry, I’m already beside him, catching his wrist, twisting it, forcing his gun to point away from me as I sink my blade into his upper right abdomen, hitting his liver. I spin him and plunge the blade intohis right lower back, three times in quick succession, getting his right kidney. He grunts, struggling, not realizing he’s already dead. I slash deep on the inner edge of his upper thigh, his femoral artery spurting blood in sharp bursts to stain the faded bedspread and drip down on the cracked tile.

I push against his breastbone, sending him toppling back on the bed, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow. In less than a minute, he’s unconscious from the blood loss. In three more minutes, he breathes his last. I wipe my blade clean on his shirt and slide it back into its sheath. I haven’t even broken a sweat.

Then I look over at Nikolai. His target lies on the bed, his face blue, veins bulging at his temples, a deep, discolored indentation circling his neck. Nikolai slides the wire garrotte into his pocket and slowly removes his gloves.

“Disposal?” he asks softly.

“I think not,” I say. “We’ll leave them. It’ll send a message to Chicago that Vegas isn’t a friendly place. Not for them.”

9

Nicole

I wakeup to find a tray of food waiting for me on top of the chest of drawers. I had a million nightmares that I can’t remember. And one dream that I can. I dreamed of Leo, naked, his cock—

No. I will not think about that, about him. Or try to analyze the fact that I dreamed about him at all. There is something seriously dark and twisted about having a sex dream about the man holding me captive.

My stomach is in knots. But I force myself to eat what’s on the tray—an apple, a cheese sandwich on white bread, and a bottle of generic water.

Leo feeds his prisoners, but certainly not the gourmet ten-course meals his family frequently enjoys. Over the last couple of years, I’d watched them have lavish dinners, even taken part in many of them.

When I finish the food, which doesn’t take long at all, I wash up in the bathroom. There’s a bar of soap, a toothbrush and some toothpaste, a couple of thin towels. I check the bathroom door. There’s a lock on the inside, which gives me the confidence to take the fastest shower ever.

I might be a prisoner minutes away from execution, but I refuse to smell like one.

I had to use the soap on my hair because there’s no shampoo or conditioner. No brush, so I finger comb the wet strands, grimacing at how coarse and stiff they feel from the lack of conditioner. I’m actually glad there’s no mirror. Between my home-styled cut and lack of grooming products I suspect I look like a wet hen caught in the rain, feathers bedraggled and askew.

I freeze. What does it matter what I look like? I’ve never much cared before…

An image of Leo stalks through my thoughts. I force it away and focus on what matters: getting out of here.

I glance at the door, then cross the room and press my ear to it. No sounds filter in.

“Hey,” I call. “Anyone out there?”

No answer, and the door remains closed, locked up tight.

I pace the small room, wracking my mind for some plan of action. I finally come to the conclusion that I am literally at the mercy of Leonardo Russo, a man I tried—and failed—to kill.

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