Page 78 of Devious Kingpin
Ivy shook her head. “The video you sent out was wild. Like you were on steroids or something.”
I let out a small laugh. I couldn’t remember a thing from that night, but it wasn’t exactly something I was proud of. Although in the grand scheme of things, it worked out. So all was well that ended well.
“Forget me and the idiotic stuff I did,” I told her. “Tell me what I can do to helpyou.”
She rolled her eyes. “Find women for my Irish prick brothers so they can be busy with their own shit and forget me.”
Another few words and our call ended.
Glancing at the clock, I hurried upstairs into our bedroom and changed into the clothes I preferred to torture men in. It was a small world, because the man who lit the fire to my parents’ home was actually in Chicago.
During a blizzard.
My lips curved into a cruel smile. “Nowhere to run, old man,” I whispered as I pushed the key into the ignition of Dante’s Land Rover. Seemed the best choice of vehicles out of all his collection.
My phone dictated the directions past the city and into the industrial part of Chicago. I parked in front of the shabby three-story building close to the tracks. I blew out a harsh breath, then waited for my racing pulse to calm. I put my gloves on and switched my flats for snow boots. Well, it was the next best thing to combat boots. My dear husband didn’t think I’d need a pair of my own, but I’d correct that immediately.
I strapped the backpack on my shoulders. It held guns, ropes, and knives. A tranquilizer. I wished I could take the credit for the tranquilizer. I’d never used one before but I happened to see the needle in Dante’s safe and decided it wouldn’t hurt to have one on hand. Breaking into Dante’s safe wasn’t a small effort but I succeeded. Of course, he’d have to replace the entire thing.
Opening the door of the car, I stealthily walked toward the house. I picked the lock and slipped in, silently moving through the house. I noted the door to the basement and was careful not to make noise as I made my way downstairs. My lips curved into a harsh smile. It was perfect—all stone.
Lowering my backpack onto the floor behind the steps, I pulled out a single knife and the tranquilizer. The information on my target was that he was an older and not-so-bulky man. That told me nothing. I didn’t want to have to fight him and drag him down the stairs. It’d be fatal to both of us.
Next, I headed back up the stairs. I couldn’t believe how shitty this place was, but according to Kian’s intel, this guy had a gambling problem. He probably pissed it all away. Not that it mattered to me. It made it easier to break into this shitty place than a fancy manor.
Careful to ensure no creaks woke up my prey, I made my way up, ignoring my racing heartbeat.
When I reached the bedroom door, my eyes darted to the bed. A man slept soundly, soft snores breaking the night air. Anger simmered through my blood. He slept like a baby, enjoying his time on this earth while my parents and who knew how many others had lost their lives.
Because of him. Because of Sofia Volkov.
* * *
Sitting on the concrete step, I took deep breaths, then slowly exhaled. Repeat.
Thank fuck for the tranquilizer.
The damn information on my target was way off. Yes, he was old but he was thick and broad-shouldered. My muscles still shook from his weight. I had to drag him down the stairs. I might have dropped him a few times.
Okay, so I pushed him. But fuck if I was going to break my back carrying that fucker down two flights of stairs and then further into the basement.
I’d taken self-defense classes over the last two years. Mixed martial arts. I even earned myself a black belt, but it didn’t mean I was a fucking weight lifter.
I was dressed in all black: black jeans, black T-shirt, black combat boots—okay, snow boots, but whatever—and I was fully prepared to get dirty. With my strength and my breathing back to normal, I shot to my feet and made my way toward the slumped, unconscious form. I had bound his wrists and feet. Just to be safe.
I studied the man. Gray hair. A scar slashed across his face. He was in his sixties. He fit the description of one of the Russians that had set my birth parents’ house on fire. There were ten men responsible for our parents’ death who attacked their home. Killian had hunted down and killed four of those men. I had killed only two so far. After tonight, it’d be three, taking my number of hits to a grand total of five, including the pieces of shit from high school.
It was strange how easily the killing came. The first one had been the hardest to stomach. The piercing screams. The begging. But then I’d remind myself what they did to me. To my parents. To my brother.
Killian told me how it all went down. The screams. The cries. The torture. He blamed himself because he’d remained hidden, holding me. I was just a baby at the time, but Killian wasn’t. Some nights, in his sleep, he was still that eight-year-old boy witnessing our parents’ torture.
The anger buzzed under my skin. They took—-actually stole—-our parents from us. They had given Killian years of nightmares, of trauma. That spurred me into action.
I kicked his foot. “Wakey, wakey.”
A soft groan vibrated against cellar walls and I kicked his foot again. He slowly roused from his unconsciousness. I watched with rapt fascination as his eyes darted around and locked on me before a myriad of emotions passed his face.
Confusion.
