Page 39 of The Debt

“He knew,” Barto whispered as his eyes darted back and forth. “He must’ve known.”

“Who? Who the fuck are you babbling about?” When Barto didn’t answer, Gregor lost control. The copper knuckles caught the light as his fist swung forward.

The brass knuckles connected with a sickening crunch, sending Barto’s head snapping sideways. Blood and spittle sprayed across the concrete floor. Gregor’s chest heaved with labored breaths as he struck again and again. Each impact was punctuated by a guttural roar of rage.

“WHO?” Another blow. “TELL ME!” Blood streaked across Gregor’s expensive suit, but he was beyond caring.

Barto’s face was a mess of purple bruises and split skin, yet his eyes held a terror that went beyond the pain Gregor was inflicting. His lips trembled, and his teeth were stained red.

“P-Please,” he whimpered between strikes. “You don’t understand what he’ll do…”

“You’re scared of that motherfucker?” Gregor grabbed him by the throat. His fingers dug painfully into his flesh, threatening to cut off his oxygen. “What I’ll do will make his threats look like fucking child’s play.”

Finally, Barto broke. His words came out in a desperate rush, “The Dark One. It was the f-fucking D-Dark One of the S-Somerville Irish Gang.”

Gregor stepped back. His blood-slicked knuckles dropped to his side. The pieces clicked into place like a death sentence. All the losses, the systematic dismantling of his empire, none of them had been random. He had suspected as much but didn’t fully believe The Dark One was responsible for everything that had happened—it had been too big, too widespread, and involved a shitload of money. Whatever drove the bastard had gone beyond punishing Polov for using a Boston bank for money laundering. There was something deeper, more sinister at play. The Dark One had been orchestrating everything from the shadows, and Polov had been too blind to see it.

“Where is he?” Gregor’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“I don’t know. He kidnapped me, and…” Barto raised his mutilated hand; the still healing stub was a testament to his torture. “He took my thumb. I had no choice, Gregor. He was going to kill me.”

Gregor’s laugh was hollow, devoid of mercy. “I might have owed you because you took care of my idiot brother when he threatened me with a coup.” His eyes blazed with murderous intent. “But now you’ve taken everything from me, and I owe you shit... you, on the other hand… you owe me.”

“Gregor, please! We’re friends! Brothers!” Barto’s pleas echoed off the walls as Gregor turned toward the door.

“I’m done with him,” Gregor said to Skull in an eerily calm voice. “Make his suffering last. I want to hear his screams as you cut him. He doesn’t die easily, Skull… let him bleed out in the end.”

As Gregor walked away, the first agonized scream chased after him, and soon another followed. The methodical rhythm of Barto’s execution followed him up the corridor in a symphony of betrayal and retribution. Each step carried him closer to the surface while his mind churned with thoughts of vengeance against the phantom who had brought him to his knees.

The Dark One had gone too far. He had declared war, except it was a different war than the territorial ones other mafia groups had waged against the Polovskaya Bratva over the years. Wars he had always won and knew how to fight. The Dark One was different.

“How do I fight a ghost, a phantom?” The echo of his voice down the hallway mocked him. His fist connected with a thud against the wall.

“I’ll find you, you fucking bastard, even if I have to burn down the whole fucking city of Boston.”

Chapter Seventeen

Jarek

A week later… The luxurious estate of Gregor Polov, Berkeley Lake…

Tatiana’s request that he meet her at her grandparents’ house at first caused alarm bells to sound in his mind, but her assurance that there was no reason for concern set his mind at ease. As much as he was confident the beguiling woman was under his spell, he remained vigilant. There was no turning back, but his patience to finally cause Polov’s complete despair was wearing thin. Twenty years to wait to witness his demise was a lifetime.

“You came,” Tatiana said as she answered the door. She floated into his arms as if she belonged there, and damned if he didn’t experience a rush of homecoming.

“Of course, I came. You sounded upset when we spoke last night,” he murmured against her lips.

“I wasn’t, but I was worried you might not come, and having you here tonight is very important to me.”

“Any specific occasion I missed?” He frowned as he searched his memory. “It’s not your birthday, is it?”

“No, but the fact that you didn’t immediately realize that is somewhat disappointing,” she said with lips pouting enticingly.

“Hmm, it’s the fifteenth of June, love. I was just a little off base for a second.”

“Good save, Mr. Farrel.” She laughed as she hugged him, then took his hand. “Come, I know you’re very busy, and coming here so soon wasn’t planned, but this just can’t wait.”

Tatiana led Jarek into the den, where the soft glow of antique lamps cast intimate shadows across dark wood wall paneling. Elizabeth and Gregor rose from their leather armchairs. Their welcoming smiles were genuine and warm. The familiar scent of aged scotch created an atmosphere of comfort and belonging.

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