Page 40 of Declan

I give Flynn a nod, and he steps back as I move closer. “Name.”

“Maxim,” Flynn answers, his eyes as predatory as mine. His knuckles are bloodied, fresh drops trailing down his hands. Maxim already has a few broken teeth and a swollen eye. But I can do better.

I lower myself onto a steel chair right in front of him, taking my time. His hands are tied behind his back, blood trailing from his mouth, but he holds his chin high like the proud soldier he is. “So, Maxim,” I say, my tone casual. “From what I hear, you’re the man with information about who’s been hitting the Irish Consortium’s warehouses.”

The bastard mutters something in Russian and spits blood onto my shirt. My response is swift—a sharp punch to his gut that doubles him over. “Let’s try this again.”

I stand up, circling him slowly before moving to the table behind him. The glint of sweat on his forehead doesn’t go unnoticed as he tries to get a glimpse of what I’m grabbing.

I pick up a small scalpel, flicking my gaze to Kian, who’s watching with that wicked smile of his. He strides over to Maxim and unties his hands just enough to pull one to the front, spreading his fingers wide on the armrest.

“Who is bombing my docks?” I ask again, but I already know he’s not going to answer. He knows he’s dead anyway, but this is where he’s wrong: it’s not death he should fear—it’s how long I can prolong his pain.

“I’m not telling you shit, Irishman!” he snarls, blood and spit flying everywhere. But I notice how thick his accent is—this guy hasn’t been in this country for long.

I step closer with the scalpel and cut each of his fingertips, one by one, as he tries to hold in his screams.

“You see, Maxim, dying is the least of your problems. I can make your life hell for days, weeks, and keep you alive the entire time.” Another cut. “Or you can tell me who hired you.” Another cut. “And I’ll make sure your death is quick and painless.” Or not, but he doesn’t need to know that for now.

I nod to Kian, and he brings Maxim’s other hand up. “Let’s continue, shall we?” I cut another.

This is something we’ve learned from our father: instead of hitting a man over and over, stabbing him, or shooting him, sometimes all you need is finesse. Like he used to say, these small cuts hurt like a motherfucker. After, I will remove the skin from each of his fingers—slowly.

“I don’t know!” the man screams, more curses in Russian as he tries to curl his fingers. Connor comes closer, holding Maxim’s hand in position so I can begin to remove the skin from them.

“Try again, Maxim.” I start with the thumb. His screams become more agonizing as the room falls into silence. Flynn stays near the door, arms crossed. This isn’t his first time in the room with us.

“After each finger is done, I’ll have my brother here cut some veins right here.” I slowly slide the scalpel down to his dick. “If you think this is hurting, you can’t even imagine how that will feel.” I chuckle darkly, cutting another strip of skin from his finger.

By the time I reach the sixth finger, he’s finally talking. Good, because cutting his dick is next on the list, and it’s not my favourite part.

“Koslov has someone on the inside,” he snarls, blood dripping from his split lip. “I don’t know who, but they’re giving him dates and times, telling him when to set the fires.”

He’s on the edge of blacking out, his head drooping, so I grab the smelling salts from the table and hold them under his nose. He jolts back, eyes wide and unfocused.

“Someone inside? One of ours?” I ask, holding the scalpel steady, just to remind him what will happen if he stops talking.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, voice barely a whisper. “Koslov keeps it under wraps, even from his own cousin.” He slumps again, his eyes rolling back. But I give him a sharp slap that brings him around, forcing him to focus.

“I need more than that shit!” I grit out, my patience teetering on the edge of snapping.

Maxim stares back at me, fear glinting in his eyes as my scalpel hovers, ready to inflict more damage. He shakes his head. “Koslov said the guy helping out is tired of being in the shadows, but that is all!”

Connor and Kian exchange glances; their eyes go wide. There’s only one person I can think of who’s been feeling thatway since the Dark wars and the thought of that Italian piece of shit being behind this makes my blood boil.

I rise, locking eyes with Flynn. “I think we have all we need.” He nods with a smirk as I position myself behind the Russian. I slide a sharp knife across his throat, and he gasps, his bloody hands instinctively reaching for the cut.

Within minutes, he bleeds out while I clean my hands, the satisfaction of it a bitter balm to my anger.

“You think your wife knows anything?” Flynn’s voice remains calm, but I can see the tension in his demeanour. He’s worried and wants answers.

“I can’t imagine someone like Viviana being involved in this,” Connor interjects, all eyes shifting to him. “Come on, Dec. You know she fucking hates her father. Do you think she’d put herself at risk for him?”

He stands his ground, locking his gaze on me. He has a point; Viviana has never been close to him, but if forced to choose between us and the Morellis, I wouldn’t put it past her to side with her flesh and blood. She did agree to marry me; she could’ve run and let them die at our hands.

I turn to Flynn. “I don’t know if she is, but I will find out.”

“And if she is?” His question hangs in the air, heavy with implications about what that would mean for me as head of the Irish Consortium.

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