4. Chapter 4 Kamilla
Chapter 4: Kamilla
P ain was my constant companion now. It has only been two days and I felt like I was going to break already. It greeted me in the morning with the first crack of Piotr's hand across my face, and it lulled me to sleep that night with the dull, throbbing ache of bruises and cuts and broken bones.
Piotr was a master of his craft. He had locked me away in this dank, fetid cell that stank of piss and fear and despair. He knew just where to strike, just how much pressure to apply, to wring the maximum amount of agony from my battered flesh. And yet, somehow, he always stopped just short of killing me. For now. I knew he would grow tired soon, but at the moment he still wanted me conscious and aware, so that he could break me down. That’s how he liked his women, broken and bloody. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg for mercy. I had already survived horrors that would make even the most hardened criminal blanch and turn away, but this time I was struggling.
My only hope was Natasha. My beautiful, innocent niece. Yes, I had sent her away into the hands of the Irish who I hated. But I would do it again to keep her safe. A thousand times over, without hesitation or regret. Because the Irish, for all their savagery and brutality, had one thing that the Bratva never would: honor. A code, a sense of right and wrong that even the most vicious killer among them would never dream of violating. At the heart of that code was Cara Maguire. The Emerald Queen. A woman who had clawed her way to the top of a man's world, who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. She would protect Natasha. She would keep Natasha safe and untouched by the filth and depravity that was in this world.
The door to my cell creaked open, signalling my pain was about to begin again. I lifted my head, my eyes narrowing as Piotr's hulking frame filled the doorway. He was alone, as he always was during these little "sessions" of ours. He liked to get his hands dirty, to feel the crunch of bone and the warm spurt of blood against his skin, but he didn’t like an audience.
"Ah, printsessa," he purred, a cruel smile curving his lips. "I'm so glad you're awake. I have a special treat for you today.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light. It was a wicked-looking thing, serrated and curved like a snake's fang. A paring knife. Used to flay the skin from a man's bones, to peel him like a grape and leave him screaming for the mercy of a quick death. I had seen it’s like before, in the hands of the Uzbek mercenaries who sometimes did business with my father. The thought of that blade against my flesh, of Piotr's thick, clumsy fingers wielding it with sadistic precision made me terrified. I would not give him the pleasure of my terror. I would bite my own tongue off before I screamed for mercy.
"Is that supposed to impress me, Piotr?" I said, my voice rough. “I’ve seen kitchen knives scarier than that."
His eyes flashed with anger, his grip tightening on the hilt. The knife flashed and pain exploded in my shoulder. I heard the splash of blood hitting the floor, felt the warm, sticky flow of it down my arm. I didn't scream. Didn't flinch or beg or plead.
"I can do this all day, Piotr," I spat, my voice steady despite the pain screaming through my body.
"You're only making it worse for yourself," he growled, his chest heaving with anger. "Every cut, every scream, every drop of blood? I'll find Natasha and pay it back on her a hundredfold. I'll make her suffer in ways you can't even imagine, ways that will make this look like a child's game. You thought she was safe?” he laughed as he spat in my face. “You should know by now I love the chase more than anything, and now I will get to hunt her and have her. And it will all be your fault, you stubborn bitch."
I spat in his face, a bloody glob of saliva that splattered across his cheek.
"You'll never touch her," I said. "She's beyond your reach now, safe with with the Irish. And even if by some miracle you did get your filthy hands on her, I would tear apart heaven and earth to make you pay, and so would Cara.”
"You have spirit, little wolf," he said. "I'll give you that. But such spirit should be broken. Will be broken, before I'm done with you. And when it is, when you're nothing but a shell of the woman you once were, then I'll let the men have you. All of them. As many times as they want, in as many ways as they can dream up. And I'll make sure they keep you conscious, that you keep feeling every tearing pain. I'll make sure you live through it. And then, when you're a ruined, pitiful thing, begging for the mercy of a quick death, I'll send you back to your Irish bitch queen as a gift, so she knows Natasha will be next.”
I bared my teeth at him. “You talk too much," I told him. "You should have just killed me, Piotr. Should have put a bullet in my brain the second Natasha was out of your reach. Because now you've given me a reason to live. I’ll make sure you never see Natasha again.” I let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, the sound harsh and jarring in the close confines of the cell. "Didn't your mother ever teach she warn you what happens when you poke a sleeping bear, little boy?"
I leaned forward, as far as my chains would allow, until I could feel his hot, rank breath on my face. Until I could smell the stink of sweat and fear beneath the cloying stench of his cologne.
"I'm not just any bear. I'm a fucking she-bear. And you've just threatened my cub." I let my smile widen. "I'll rip you apart with my teeth," I whispered, holding his gaze without blinking. "I'll paint the walls with your blood and use your bones as toothpicks. And when I'm done, I'll bring Natasha home, and together, she and I will burn the Bratva to the ground.”
Something flickered in Piotr's eyes, and I fed on it, let it nourish the vengeful, hate-filled thing unfurling in my chest.
I was going to kill him and everyone around him.
“When I come for you, Piotr, and I will come for you, there will be nowhere on this earth you can hide. Nowhere you can run that I won't find you, that I won't hunt you down like the sniveling, shit-stained coward you are." Then, deliberately, mockingly, I winked.
Piotr just stood there, staring down at me with a mixture of shock and anger. He turned and left, the cell door slammed shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a heavy, final sound. I leaned my head back against the damp stone wall and closed my eyes, a smile playing about my split and bloody lips.
I will survive this.