Page 44 of Crown of Hate

He spits a glob of blood at my feet. “Fuck you.”

“Wrong answer.” I don’t bother with the forceps this time. Instead, I snatch Alexei’s gun from his holster, aim for Nikolai’s left ear, and pull the trigger.

The gunshot echoes through the basement, then follows with Nikolai’s agonized scream. The realization that he’s going to die—painfully and piece by piece—finally sinks in.

“Mikhail,” Alexei says. When I look at him, his eyes are wide with shock. But he doesn’t say another word. He’s not stupid enough to interrupt my torture session.

I grab Nikolai’s jaw with my free hand and force him to meet my eyes. “Twelve men died because of you. Twelve men who were your friends and brothers. You don’t deserve to live.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice only a broken whisper.

“Save it for them when you meet them in hell.” I toss his jaw away as if it’s a disgusting pot of hot, dirty water. “I’m not completely heartless. I’ll make sure your mother is taken care of after I kill you.”

I cock the gun and point it to one of his toes this time.

“It’s Akim Petrov,” he yells out. “He has a bounty on your head. Whoever kills you and brings your head to Russia will earn ten million dollars.”

“Ten million dollars?” A laugh rumbles in my throat. I should feel flattered, but all I feel is insulted. If Akim wanted a bounty on my head, he could’ve at least made it two hundred million. “How did the Italians get involved?”

Nikolai’s breath comes in ragged gasps. He’s losing a lot of blood. His time is running out. “He made a deal with Lucas. I don’t know the details, but I think it has to do with territories.”

I exchange glances with Alexei and Semyon. The pieces fall into place. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what the deal is about. That fucker probably offered them The Chicago Bratva’s territories if they help bring me down.

“Is there anything else I should know?”

Nikolai shakes his head weakly. “That’s everything I know. I swear on my life.”

“Your life isn’t worth much right now.” I point the gun to his forehead now, positioning it for a clean kill. He has given me the information I needed. The least I can do for him is make his passing quick. “Any last word?”

“Take care of my mother.”

“I will.” My finger tightens on the trigger. The shot rings out, and Nikolai’s body goes limp. His eyes, still wide and tear-filled,stare vacantly at nothing. A trail of blood trickles from the hole between his eyes, a final crimson tear.

I hand the gun back to Alexei. “Get rid of him and send some money to his mother. She shouldn’t suffer for her son’s stupidity.”

As I climb the stairs, my mind races. Akim Petrov thinks he can take me down? Carve up my territory? He’s about to learn a hard lesson.

And I’ll write that lesson in blood.

14

ALYA

“Will you be home early for dinner?”

Mikhail’s fingers freeze on his shirt button. His blue eyes drill into me, sharp as ice picks, and a slow smile creeps across his face. “Do you want me home early for dinner?”

I shrug, fighting the urge to scream “Yes!” The emptiness of this mansion without him is suffocating. The very air seems to mock my loneliness when he’s gone. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to life without Mikhail. I’ve tried a lot of things the last couple of days: reading, watching TV, swimming, playing games. Yet the only time I don’t feel this crushing boredom is when I’m with him.

God, I hate myself for this weakness. It’s pathetic. I can’t be this needy, this desperate, if I’m going to take my revenge. I need to be strong, ruthless. Just like him.

“Maybe,” I end up muttering, hating the way my voice betrays me. Why the hell did I just say that…

He scoffs, turning to the glass tie rack. Hundreds of expensive ties gleam behind the display. Everything in his side of this massive closet is meticulously arranged by colors. The sheernumber of identical black suits, ties, and shoes makes me want to scream. Or throw up. Maybe both.

His hand hovers over one of the sea of black ties.

“No, not that one.” I march over, snatching a lone gray tie from the far end of the rack. Then press it to his chest, trying to ignore the solid warmth beneath my fingers. “This will suit you better.”

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