Page 84 of This Thing of Ours

“Go straight back to Volkov’s room. We’ll get the others after,” Marco heard Nico whisper from behind him.

Marco nodded. No way they were letting this fucker escape.

The hallway was carpeted. Some low-grade industrial shit in puke brown, but at least it muffled his footsteps. They’d been told none of the rooms upstairs would be locked. Marco placed his hand on the knob and prayed like hell that was correct because there was no quiet way to break down a door. The knob turned easily in his hand, and Marco breathed out a sigh. The door opened soundlessly, and he stopped just over the threshold to scan the room, gun out at the ready. Enough light shone through the only window in the room to show it was empty.

The space had been converted into a living room—couch, TV, desk with a computer sitting on it. To the right, a makeshift kitchen was created from a mini bar, complete with sink, under-counter fridge, and a hot plate. The place looked lived in, borderline messy. Take-out wrappers and soda cans littered the coffee table. Stray pieces of clothing—a tie and jacket—had been thrown on the back of the sofa. More take-out trash overflowed a wastebasket and lay on the floor, surrounding it. A door was to the left. Presumably, the bedroom and hopefully where they would find Volkov.

Nico came up beside Marco, but said to Ricky, “Wait here and keep a lookout.”

He took a step, but Marco stayed him with a hand on his arm. “I’ll go first.” He didn’t give Nico a chance to respond before making his way to the door.

Heart pounding, Marco placed his hand on the knob. Opening it would reveal one of three things. Volkov asleep—which would be ideal. Volkov awake—not as ideal. Or no Volkov at all—which would suck. He supposed there could be a fourth option, someone in the room other than Volkov. But he would never know unless he opened the damn door.

Why was he hesitating? He wanted this fucker dead more than anyone else in the room. Refusing to give in to the boulder-size ball of apprehension lodged in his gut that had been steadily growing all day, he took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and swung the door open.

The room was dark but enough light filtered through the slats of the blinds to see a body lying on the bed, back to the door. Silently they moved in, Nico staying at Volkov’s back, Marco going around to his front.

The light from the window hit directly on the guy’s face. Mid-to-late fifties. Reddish-brown hair graying at the temples. Bushy eyebrows, an overly large nose, and a square jaw. Same as the guy in the picture Dmitri showed them and later confirmed by Gabriella.

Ivan Volkov.

It’d pained Marco to drag Gabby back to that night, but, not trusting Dmitri, he’d sent her the picture,knowing she was strong enough to handle it. And he’d been right, his girl was tough. Not only had she confirmed the guy in the photo was Volkov, she’d told Marco to make him pay, while—in true Gabriella fashion—stipulating to be safe while doing it.

Nico’s hand shot out, covering the guy's mouth and his eyes flew open. He jolted, rolled and tried to sit up, but the pressure of Nico’s hand held him down. Marco added a gun to Ivan’s forehead to still his struggles.

He must have recognized Nico because his eyes grew round. Either that or it was a reaction to having a metal muzzle digging into his flesh.

“Ivan Volkov?”

The guy didn’t respond to Nico’s question other than a narrowing of his eyes.

“I’m going to assume you know why we’re here,” Nico continued. “If you don’t, I really don’t give a fuck.”

Marco’s finger twitched on the trigger. It would be so easy. Sadly, it would also be loud, alerting men to their presence.

“Out of respect for your position—though you don’t deserve it, fucking with my sister—I’m gonna make your death quick.” Nico shimmied his knife in front of the guy’s face. “I’d ask if you have any last words, but I really don’t give a fuck about those either.”

Volkov mumble-yelled something unintelligible behind Nico’s hand and started thrashing. Marco placed all his weight on Volkov’s shoulder, and without wasting time, with a flick of his wrist, Nico sliced the guy’s neck, ear to ear. Ivan’s struggles turned frantic. His arms, trapped in the sheets, clawed to get free. Nico leaned over him, placing a forearm to his chest until the fight left him.

Blood sprayed. So much fucking blood, it was soaking the sheets and Marco’s arm and leg. Nico didn’t fare much better, getting it on his arm, hand, and even some on his chest.

It didn’t take long for Volkov to lose consciousness, his struggles ceasing completely, and Marco removed the gun from his forehead and stepped back.

“What a fuckin’ mess.” Nico stood, shaking his hand.

Marco picked up a corner of the comforter at the foot of the bed and used it to wipe off his hand.

Nico used the other corner to clean his blade.

Marco looked around the room. A door stood ajar behind him. “That must be the bathroom,” he said, nodding to it.

Nico picked up Ivan’s arm and put his finger to his wrist. “No pulse. Let’s clean up and get the fuck out of here.”

“We just gonna leave him here like that?” Marco asked, indicating the body.

“Want his men to know what happened to him. Then maybe they’ll leave us the fuck alone.”

“And if they don’t?”

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