Page 86 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

“Getting cozy in there?” He taps the baton twice. “Boss says you might be here a while.”

I sit on the hard concrete bench, keeping my back straight and my face blank despite the way my heart thunders against my ribs. The damp air clings to my skin, and mold creeps up the grimy walls, but I won’t let him see me flinch.

“Nothing to say?” He chuckles, a dry sound like dead leaves scraping concrete. His thin lips twist when I match his stare, a silent battle of wills through the rusted iron bars. The guard’s pale eyes narrow, but I keep my expression neutral.

Heavy boots scrape against concrete, growing louder with each step. I squeeze the syringe hidden in my palm until my fingers ache, feeling the plastic bite into my skin.

Gavriil emerges from the shadows, his massive frame blocking what little light filters through the corridor. The gold chain around his thick neck sparkles dully in the lantern’s glow as he approaches. His Russian accent drips with false warmth. “Our little bird has finally been caged.”

Bile rises in my throat at his presence, with memories of his meaty hands and vodka-soured breath making my skin crawl. I swallow hard, keeping my face blank even as my pulse quickens. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

“You’re not authorized to be here,” says the guard, stepping forward with his shoulders squared. His hand instinctively moves toward the holster at his hip. “Boris told me Mr. Petrov pulled you off guard duty. You aren’t to have any contact?—”

The sickening crack of bone meeting bone cuts through the silence. Gavriil’s meaty fist slams into the guard’s temple with a brutal uppercut that lifts the smaller man off his feet. The guard’s eyes roll back, his mouth frozen in a silent ‘O’ as hecollapses. He hits the concrete with a dull thud and a quiet moan, his limbs splayed like a broken marionette.

Metal jingles as Gavriil yanks the key ring from the unconscious guard’s belt, his thick fingers sorting through them with surprising dexterity. The lock clicks open with his third attempt, and the cell door groans on its hinges. I catch a glimpse of blood on Gavriil’s knuckles. Whether it’s his or the guard’s, I can’t tell.

A vein pulses at Gavriil’s temple when he ducks through the doorway, his massive frame filling the narrow entrance. A purple-black bruise spreads across his jaw where I struck him before. His lips curl into a sneer, transforming his face into something almost feral.

“You’ve caused me quite a bit of trouble, little mouse.” He stalks forward, each step deliberate and menacing. “Boris may have stripped me of my authority, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a private conversation.”

My bare feet scramble against the floor when I push myself up, sliding my palms against the rough wall behind me. Cold seeps through my thin shirt where my back presses against stone. “Stay away from me.”

A bark of laughter echoes off the walls, sharp and cruel. Gavriil’s breath reeks of cigarettes as he crowds closer. “Or what? You’ll run again?” His massive hand shoots out, slapping against the wall beside my head. “There’s nowhere to go this time. No one to hear you scream.” His yellowed teeth flash in a predatory grin. “Just you and me, settling our score.”

My fingers tighten around the hidden syringe until plastic bites into my palm. The needle presses against my forearm where I’veconcealed it beneath my sleeve. I have one chance to get this right.

“Myshonok…” He drags out each syllable with a vicious smile that shows his yellowed teeth. His voice drops to a guttural whisper. “Matvey wants you alive for now, but he never said you had to be unharmed.” He flexes his fingers, cracking thick knuckles.

I lift my chin, summoning courage I don’t feel. “Touch me, and Valerian will make you wish you were never born.” The words come out sharp as broken glass, even as my insides quiver.

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest. His vodka-soured breath washes over me when he leans closer, blocking what little light comes from the lantern. “Valerian isn’t here, is he?” His lips curl into a sneer. “It’s just you and me now.”

My pulse skyrockets when he takes another step. His eyes glint like a predator’s in the dim light, and I’m surprised there’s no animal shine. A promise of violence is written in every line of his face. I press harder against the wall, cold stone stealing warmth through my thin shirt.

A small sob escapes my throat, and it’s not entirely an act. The syringe is slick against my damp palm, but I keep my grip firm. It’s the only thing standing between me and whatever sadistic plans lurk behind his hungry stare.

“That’s right.” Gavriil sneers, closing the distance between us. “You should be afraid.”

He grabs my shoulder roughly, pinning me in place. I go limp, trembling as I keep my gaze downcast. His grip loosens slightly, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Not so tough now, are you?” He leans in closer, his breath hot on my face. The stench ofcigarettes and vodka makes my stomach churn, threatening to trigger another round of nausea and dry heaving.

The cool plastic of the syringe trembles against my palm when I squeeze my eyelids shut, blocking out the sight of Gavriil’s thick fingers working at my shirt buttons.Pop.The first button slides free.Pop.The second follows. His tobacco-stained fingernails scrape against my collarbone, and bile rises in my throat. Hot tears leak from beneath my closed lids.

“Please.” My words come out paper-thin, broken. “Don’t do this.” I’m trying to appear non-threatening, but there’s no acting involved in the plea. I’m terrified.

His harsh and cruel laugh sounds like gravel in a blender. His vodka breath washes over my face when he gets closer still. “Begging won’t help you now,myshonok.” The last word drips with mockery.

He fumbles the third button, giving me precious seconds. The syringe grows slick with sweat in my palm. My heart rate is erratic as time stretches like taffy. I’m tense and ready. I think of the quads growing inside me, innocent and unknowing. Four precious lives depending on my next move.

I strike like a viper.

The needle pierces his eye with a wet pop. Blood and clear fluid spray across my face, making me let out a sound of disgust, as Gavriil releases an animal shriek that splits the air. He staggers back, massive hands clawing at his face while blood pours down his cheek. His efforts to staunch the flow spread the rivulets to his white-blond hair.

“You fuckingsuka!” A primal sound erupts from Gavriil’s throat—half-roar, half-scream—and is something no human shouldmake. He staggers backward, shoulders slamming into the cell wall hard enough to rattle the steel door in its frame.

“Oh, fuck!” His words dissolve into Russian, guttural and raw. Blood pours between the gaps of his fingers where they claw at his face, spattering his white shirt in a gruesome constellation. The empty syringe bobs obscenely with each of his jerking movements, its clear plastic barrel now painted red from the inside.

Bile burns the back of my throat. The metallic stench of blood fills my nostrils, mixing with the musty cell air. I swallow hard, pressing my palm flat against the wall to steady myself and force back nausea. My other hand shields my belly protectively.

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