Page 19 of Sexting the Boss

His head lolls forward, his breathing ragged, sweat soaking through his dress shirt.

When he hears our footsteps, he twitches, forcing his swollen eyes open. Recognition flickers across his face. Then fear.

“Zaitsev,” he croaks, voice shaking.

I take my time stepping forward.

Then I crouch in front of him, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Dmitry,” I murmur. “You look like shit.”

He swallows hard. “Please?—”

I tilt my head. “Please what?”

He blinks rapidly, his fear a tangible thing now. He knows, knows how this ends. And yet, he still tries. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to?—”

I click my tongue. “Didn’t mean to?” I straighten, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt as I glance at Oleg. “What do you think, old friend? Was it an accident?”

Oleg keeps his expression blank. But his voice is flat, lethal. “No accidents in this business.”

Dmitry starts shaking harder, his wrists straining against the zip ties. “Please, I?—”

I hold up a hand. “You sold us out.”

His mouth opens, closes. He stares at me, drowning in his own panic.

“You thought you were smarter than us,” I continue, voice calm. “That the Albanians wouldn’t talk. That we wouldn’t find out.” I crouch again, gripping the arms of the chair, leaning in until my face is mere inches from his. “You were wrong.”

His breath comes in shallow gasps now.

Good.

Fear is a powerful thing.

But it’s not enough.

I reach inside my jacket, pulling out my gun, and press the cold metal beneath his chin.

He whimpers.

“Now,” I say softly. “Tell me everything.”

And he does.

The moment the cold steel presses against his jaw, the fight drains out of him, replaced by the frantic, panicked wheezing of a man who knows he’s already dead.

“I—I didn’t have a choice,” he chokes out, shaking violently. “They—they came to me first! They said if I didn’t give them something, they’d?—”

I sigh, rolling my shoulders. “Dmitry.”

He flinches at the way I say his name, his bottom lip trembling.

“They came to you,” I repeat, slowly, as if I’m trying to understand something impossible. “And instead of coming to me, instead of coming to Oleg, you thought the best course of action was to betray your own brothers?”

His breathing stutters. “I?—”

“Shhh.” I shake my head, dragging the barrel of the gun up the side of his face, tracing the sweat-drenched skin at his temple. “You expect me to believe you did this for survival? That you, who have eaten at my table, who have bled with my men, who swore an oath of loyalty—simply had no choice?”

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