Page 23 of Sin and Redemption

I looked around the spacious master bedroom with the oak floors, comfortable king bed, windows overlooking the treetops, and the light gray marble en suite bathroom. I wasn’t sure if Sara and I would share this room. I wasn’t sure if we should even try in the beginning. There would be enough obstacles for us.

The weeks leading up to the wedding weren’t filled with anything remotely heartwarming or romantic. The wedding had been planned for a while. My future bride and I didn’t have a budding relationship that needed to be honed. She needed space, and I was more than okay with giving it to her. The only thing I occasionally wished for was knowing more about the pregnancy.

Would Sara even talk to me if she decided to end the pregnancy despite her previous decision? I sometimes asked Romero how Sara was doing or even Amo because he saw her when Sara’s family visited his parents. That way, I always stayed in the loop.

I wasn’t even sure how I would feel if Sara decided to get an abortion. I knew I didn’t have a right to talk her into any kind of decision after what had happened.

I shook my head. I needed to focus. I had a job to do—one that wasn’t usually my style, but I’d talked Primo into letting me handle it. Explosives were usually his area of expertise. He had never been as keen about torture as me. He preferred things with more impact on a grand scheme and less direct contact with people.

I read through Primo’s instructions once more. I too had learned how to handle explosives, but it had been a while since I’d used them. “Don’t fuck up, or Luca will fuck me up” were his last words on the piece of paper he’d handed me this morning.

I had no intention of fucking up. Not just because I wanted to be the one to get this kill and wreak utter destruction but also because I didn’t want to get my brother, or Amo, who also knew, in trouble.

I got out of my pickup and approached the back entrance of the building. The neon sign on the front declared it a brewhouse, which it was by day in its public areas, but at night and in the spacious basement, Jabba’s little brother had a laboratory for designer drugs. I wasn’t supposed to go in. I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone. Especially not Kirill. His wife had told us everything there was to know. She was the brain in their marriage, even if Kirill masqueraded as the one who led the business. Luckily, she had sung like a canary at the mere threat of torture. She had no loyalty to her husband or the Bratva. Her loyalties lay with Louis Vuitton and Prada and whoever guaranteed that standard of living. She was dead now.

I peered through one of the windows into the inside. Wooden casks were used as tables, and an array of beer cans and bottles were displayed on shelves on the walls. I broke the door and moved into the deserted inside of the brewery. No flights of beer and loaded nachos were being served now. I wasn’t sure if a silent alarm had been set in motion, but even if it had, there was only one exit out of the basement. I prepared the explosives and set a timer to five minutes. Maybe reinforcement would be here by the time the bomb exploded, and even more Bratva assholes would die.

I was supposed to leave right away. Instead, I watched the flap door behind the bar for signs of movement. I wanted to make sure Kirill was really inside. The flap door lifted, and a head poked through. Not Kirill. “This place will blow up in a couple of minutes. Send me Kirill and I might let you leave.”

The head disappeared, and almost a minute later, Kirill left the flap door. He wasn’t as meaty as his older brother, but they shared the same Jabba-likeness nonetheless. He cursed in Russian, something very nasty about my mother.

The timer was at two minutes.

“My brother should have fucked your future wife too,” Kirill said.

I pulled my knife and aimed it at his loin. The blade hit its mark, and Kirill sank to his knees with a satisfying howl. Matteo had taught me how to throw knives and Dad how to throw axes. Amo and I had often practiced throwing axes for fun. Throwing a knife came in more handy on the job, though.

Ninety seconds.

I pulled the jawbone of Jabba’s favorite cousin from the pocket of my leather jacket and walked toward Kirill’s writhing form. I had carved XO Max into the bone after I’d tortured the guy to death last week. I wouldn’t get to be as thorough this time, nor could I wait for Kirill’s death. I knelt beside him, put the jawbone down beside his shaking form, enjoying his horrified expression, then I rammed my knife into his back in a way that immobilized him so I could carve an M into his still flesh-covered jaw.

My eyes sought the timer. Twenty seconds. Fuck. I shoved to my feet and whirled around, then raced toward the exit. I’d hate to die because I carved my initial into Kirill’s ugly face. I’d hate it even more for Jabba to find my dead body. He was supposed to find the bodies of his family members until the disgusting rat finally emerged from the gutter.

Primo would definitely kill me if he found out I didn’t follow his instructions.

I was halfway to my pickup when the blast of the explosion hit me and tossed me to the ground. My ears rang, and the scent of burnt hair and flesh told me I had been a bit too close to the explosion than Primo would consider safe. I sat up with a groan at the intense pain in my back and neck. The building was up in flames, and debris littered the street. A dent in the hood of my truck indicated I should have parked down the street where Primo had suggested. But he wanted to be professional. I wanted to get revenge.

Who the fuck cared if I burned myself? Not I, that was sure.

I pushed to my feet despite the static in my ears and got in my car. In the distance, I could hear sirens. Soon, this place would swarm with police, paramedics, and firefighters.

I sat straight as I drove home, not wanting to lean against the backrest. It felt as if part of my T-shirt had melted into my skin, and I didn’t want to make it worse by putting pressure on the burns.

I almost passed out twice on my way back home. When I got out of the car, I had to steady myself against the door.

Primo stepped out on the porch and shook his head with a look of exasperation. He stalked toward me and helped me inside the house. I gritted my teeth when his arm pressed against the burns on my back. He sat me down in the kitchen and returned with a first-aid kit shortly after. “How badly did you fuck up?”

“I didn’t fuck up. I blew up the brewery, and Kirill is dead.”

“I’m sure that’s the whole story.” He dumped what felt like a whole bottle of disinfectant over my back, making me groan in pain.

“It won’t be pretty getting the fabric out of your wounds. You better bite down on something.”

“Give me a bottle of moonshine.”

He handed me the strongest liquor we had, and I downed a considerable amount. Then I gave a nod to show Primo I was ready.

It still hurt like hell, like being skinned alive, which was kind of the case, considering part of my upper skin had become one with my shirt.

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