Page 68 of Sinner's Vows

The guy focuses on the photos, his gaze slow to jostle between the images. “Boris Kovalenko,” he grinds out.

“And the other guy?” I push the paper close to his face.

“Boryslav Petrenko.” Blood starts to seep from the guy’s mouth, and he coughs. Probably from a lost tooth or five.

“And? What makes these boys significant?” Next to me, Matteo, Luca, and Benedict are rolling on their heels, and the guy’s gaze jumps to them, then back to mine.

“Petrenko is Igor Petrov’s nephew. He got him out of Ukraine. I hope you didn’t kill the poor fucker. He doesn’t look very alive on that second picture.”

I sag in my soul but keep my posture upright. Nothing in my body language can give away what I feel. To make sure nobody is fucking with us, I ask the same questions to the rest of our prisoners, and when each of them agrees on the names, even though I’m holding the images up in random order, we need to take it as the truth.

“Why was Petrov’s cousin, fucking nephew, whatever, coming over to our side to fuck around in our territory?” Matteo asks in general.

“It was just a job,” one man groans.

“Which you fucked up,” Luca chimes in.

We share looks amongst ourselves. If Franco were just a job, and these men were acting on their own without Igor or Ivan Petrov’s approval, they might have stirred up shit unintentionally. There’s no way of knowing, not until this whole situation comes to a head.

“Can we get rid of them already?” Benedict says. “It isn’t as if they’re going back to where they came from.”

“Hmm,” Matteo hums, hands in his pants pockets, looking over the scene. “We keep this contained for as long as we can. For now, nobody else is breathing down our necks to find these fuckers, and we need to sort this situation with Ariana out first.” He glances at me. “I suspect when the time comes, Petrov is going to require our full attention.”

“We’re done here, then?” I ask. “Six of them if Petrov is going to keep count?”

My throat constricts, and I have a hard time swallowing. Six men might be overlooked in the bigger scheme of things, depending on their worth in Petrov’s Bratva, but a cousin…a nephew?Fuck.

Bottom line, this is a family fuckup. It started with the Don and dominoed to this. Matteo and Steph both have a hand in it, and let’s remind ourselves: teamwork makes the fucking dream work.

“There’s no going back now,” Matteo says as he pulls his gun from his shoulder holster. “Four of us, four of them. We’re done here. Party’s over.”

Fuck. In my head, it’s only started. We’re all pulling out our guns and pick a Ukrainian at random. The men are whimpering now, begging in whatever language, but I block out the sounds.

Vincenzo hasn’t peeped a word during this entire interrogation, but I watch the fuckwit. He is literally pissing in his seat, the liquid spraying into the bucket from his little wilted dick. His time will come. In the interim, let him shit himself.

On Matteo’s cue, we raise our guns, and in unison, finish the four Ukrainians in one go. Their bodies slump as blood starts to seep from the holes in their foreheads. Just a dribble. It’s the back of the head where the party’s at with brains and bits of skull bursting out and splattering onto the floor. It’s nothing in comparison to what this room can take, what with the drain hole in the middle and the neat hosing-down options we have in place.

Quiet descends once again, and we all home in on Vincenzo. He’s rattling his chains where he’s fastened to his metal chair. Boy, oh boy. It’s all fun and games, until it isn’t.

I go stand in front of him and take in the goosebumps spreading on his marbled skin. He seems to be almost blue with cold, but it’s only fear. “Vincenzo Trapani, it would seem Franco Fiore’s plans didn’t work out, and you’re pretty fucked.”

He shudders, and I shoot a glance to Matteo where he’s standing to the side with Luca and Benedict in tow.

“Tell me what you know about Ariana Morelli,” I ask, stepping up to him and putting my foot down on his bare toes.No pressure, but the hint is there. At least he pissed himself already—there’s no chance he’ll do so now and splatter some on my legs.

“I don’t know, man. Franco didn’t let me in on all his business dealings.”

I put some weight on his foot, and he groans. I’m a big man. I can break the bones in his feet if I want to. “So whatdidhe tell you?”

“She’s some mafioso’s daughter, but he never told me who. Some big shot.”

“Any names you care to share?”

“Fuck man, I dunno? It’s the fucking Mafia. In Italy. Every area has its capos; there are many big shots. Being Don Trapani’s son, I was above the fucking fray.”

I glance at Matteo, and he gives me a cocked brow. This guy is a fucking arrogant idiot, going around the world as if he’s royalty.

“There’re capos aplenty, but was this guy a Don?” Matteo asks. “From Italy?”

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