Page 108 of Reaper
I meet his eyes, see the hunger there. He wants me to beg, to break, to give him something he can savor. Instead, I smile. "Then get on with it, Boris. Clock's ticking."
He draws back, studies my face as if he's reading sheet music. Or at least, he would be reading my face if the old bitch were wearing his glasses. Then he stands, walks over to Tank, whosebreathing has gone shallow and controlled. "Maybe I’ll start with your friend here. Maybe I’ll make you watch."
"Leave him out of this. You know I’m the one you want to stick your thing in."
"Ah, there it is." Boris's smile spreads wider. "Ricky DeMarco cares about something after all."
Tank's voice cuts through the stench and tension. "Don't give this piece of shit the satisfaction, Ricky. He's gonna do whatever he's gonna do, anyway."
Boris backhands Tank across the face, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. Tank spits blood, looks Boris dead in the eye, and grins. “Is that all you got, grandpa? My woman hits harder than that. Fuck, one punch from her and you’ll be pissing your fucking Depends."
I can't let Boris focus on Tank any longer. Time to redirect his attention where it belongs.
"Hey, Boris," I call out, my voice carrying that edge that's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count. "You sure you know how to use that knife, or is it just for show? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like the kind of guy who'd cut himself trying to open a fucking packet of dried prunes."
Boris freezes mid-swing, his head turning toward me with predatory slowness. The knife gleams as he straightens, and I see exactly what I wanted — his full attention locked on me instead of Tank.
"You want to play, DeMarco?" He moves back to me, kneeling again, the blade dancing between his fingers like he's done this dance a thousand times before. "I was going to make this quick for you."
"Please spare me the fucking lies. There’s no way an old limp-dick like you could even go fast.”
The first cut comes without warning — a precise slice along my collarbone that parts the fabric of my shirt and the skinbeneath like they're made of paper; the pain is immediate and sharp, but I've been craving pain for so long that it feels almost like a homecoming. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, taste copper, but don't give him the satisfaction of a sound.
Boris studies my face, looking for cracks in my composure. When he doesn't find any, he makes another cut, this one tracing the curve of my ribs. The blade moves with surgical precision; he knows exactly how deep to go, how to maximize pain without hitting anything vital. Not yet.
I think of Adriana somewhere out there, breathing, living, free. The thought gives me strength even as Boris finds another spot to explore with his knife — the tender skin just above my hip bone. He's an artist with that blade, I'll give him that. Knows exactly how to cut to maximize pain without hitting anything vital.
The cuts burn and throb, but I hold on to that image of Adriana. Safe. Alive. Away from all this blood and madness.
I manage a smile.
Boris frowns.
He shifts position, and I see him studying my hands, my fingers. That's when my stomach drops, because I know what's coming next. The knife moves to my left hand, positioned just above the knuckle of my pinky finger.
"Let's see how quiet you stay when I start taking pieces."
The blade slides between skin and nail bed, and the pain explodes through my nervous system like liquid fire. This time I can't hold back — a sound escapes me, somewhere between a grunt and a growl, but I clamp my teeth down hard enough that I taste blood.
Boris grins wider. "There we go."
But he's not done. The knife moves to the webbing between my fingers, and he cuts with methodical precision, creating a network of shallow wounds that scream with every heartbeat.My vision blurs at the edges, but I force myself to stay present, to stay conscious.
The blade goes further up into the flesh of my hand.
Then he twists it.
And I howl.
It’s then the door to this piss-stained tomb that reeks of fish, ammonia, and the old man’s rotten breath flies open and a man — so tall, gangling, gaunt, with a face like a skeleton wearing a too-tight mask of withered flesh — enters. He’s wearing a finely tailored suit that must’ve cost a fortune to get tailored to fit his unnatural frame. His eyes meet mine, and all I can see in the cone of pain that consumes my vision is his inhuman smile.
The blade stops. Withdraws. And Boris takes a step back and inclines his head at Ruslan Volkov, who still has not taken his eyes off me.
His mouth opens, and a voice like the echo of a dying man’s whisper comes forth.
“Ricky DeMarco, how I have waited for this moment. The pain I have gone through just to get you here in this room with me has been nothing short of extraordinary. And yet, that pales in comparison to what I am going to do to you.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
