Page 101 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

The pens in the desk are rattling now from the force of Vaughn’s trembling. He’s starting to understand what’s at stake here.

“Mr. Romanoff,” Vaughn rasps, “I believe you are talking about blackmail, and I can assure you I do not have any.”

I click my tongue. “I know you have what I’m looking for. I’d love for you to give it to me willingly, to help me out. I want our relationship to remain civil. But of course, like you, I’ve learned a few tricks over the years to ensure I get the outcome I want.”

“There’s nothing to give you, I swear!” Kurt gasps. “I really don’t know what you’re looking for, but I don’t think I have it. I can’t produce something that does not exist.”

Before he can blink, I lunge across his desk, wrap my fingers around his wrist, and pin his hand to the table. In the same motion, I free the knife from my pocket.

“How long do you think it would take you to learn to type with only nine fingers?” I muse as I press the blade to the first knuckle of his middle finger. I slide it over to his pointer finger. “Not too bad. But what about eight? That would be difficult, I think.”

Kurt lets out a squeal and tries to pull his hand back, but my grip is too tight. “Please, Mr. Romanoff. Dima, please, for the love of God! I don’t have what you’re looking for!”

I release his hand and flop back down in my chair, enjoying the way the lawyer’s chest is rising and falling rapidly. His cheeks are so red they are nearly purple.

“I can’t stand that you’re lying to me. But cutting off your fingers today would take so much time and this suit was far too expensive to get bloodstains in. Don’t get me wrong—I’d do it, of course,” I say, slipping out of my suit jacket and hanging it on the back of my chair. “But it would be so much less mess if you would just cooperate.”

“Please…” he whimpers.

“I came here in good faith today, hoping you would be honest with me. Because if you’re honest with me, then you won’t have to be honest with the FBI.”

The redness in Kurt’s face fades to a sickly gray. “The FBI?”

I nod. “I have it on good authority that an agent is coming to your office today to speak with you about how you covered up Maria D’Onofrio’s murder. Hence why I arrived without an appointment. There was no time for formalities.”

The lawyer’s mouth opens and closes several times without him saying anything. I think it might be the first time in history a lawyer has ever been speechless.

“They’re coming today?” he squeaks.

I nod. “Any minute.”

Right on cue, his phone rings.

“Jasmine, I’m in the middle of—An FBI agent?” he asks, looking towards the door as though he may be able to see through it. “O-o-okay, thank you. H-have them wait for me.”

When he hangs up the phone, I notice the tremble in his hands.

I look down at my watch. “I’m cutting it close, aren’t I? So, what will it be, Mr. Vaughn? I doubt I have the time to cut off your fingers now that a federal agent is in the building. But I am happy to take a rain check.”

Vaughn looks from me to the door and back again before he violently pushes his chair away from his desk, unlocks the largest bottom drawer, and then removes a fake bottom.

Beneath it is a manila envelope and a disc in a clear plastic case. Kurt pulls the items out and slides them across the desk to me.

He starts to explain without meeting my eyes. “All the proof is in there. The original coroner’s report before we had it doctored. The record of the wire transfer from Giorgio D’Onofrio to my account. I’m sorry—oh God, I’m so fucking sorry,” he sobs.

“You’re just sorry you got caught, you fuckingmudak,” I snarl. “You weren’t sorry when you were dumping an innocent woman’s body into the river and helping her husband get away with murder.”

He’s crying now, his face pressed into his desk. His back jumps with each wailing sob.

“But,” I sigh, “you get to keep all your fingers today, Mr. Vaughn. I’m in a merciful mood. For your sake, I hope the FBI will feel the same.”

Then I take the files, turn, and leave.

One former cop corrupted.

One more Trial completed.

Jasmine, the receptionist, is much less interested in me as I leave the office. Her eyes are locked instead on the FBI agent sitting in the chair in the waiting room.

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