Chapter 41 #2
“Loses what?” I hate that he makes me ask the question. I hate that I need to know.
“His reputation. His clients. All of Lone Wolf.”
Before I can scoff, I check Cole’s reaction. His fingers have folded into tight fists. His eyes are so narrow I can’t see their gold flecks. His lips tighten over one word: “You.”
“I’ve left orders,” Tarasov says. “If I die, my obshchak will release the files.”
“You made that threat before,” I remind him. He did, the day I let him past the gate. The day he forced Cole to start handing over Da’s records.
Tarasov ignores me. “Every financial paper in the world will get it,” he says to Cole. “The complete indictment. Unredacted.”
“Cole?” I ask. “What’s he talking about?”
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. When he does speak, his voice vibrates with hate. “He’s been blackmailing me. One hundred million dollars last month. One twenty is due today.”
“Get me out of here, Wolf. We’ll call it even.”
A muscle twitches in Cole’s jaw.
“Give me a phone. I’ll call my obshchak now.”
Cole closes his eyes, every muscle taut in his body.
“Help me. And you can help yourself.”
When Cole finally does speak, the words sound like they’re being pulled from his guts. “The indictment. How did you find it?”
Tarasov is so eager to answer that he spits.
“Your sister. After your wedding, when she was playing me for restaurant meals and fake diamond earrings. She keeps a box under her bed—birthday cards from when she was a kid, a torn up stuffed cat, and a diary. Pink leather. A lock you can pick with a paper clip. She wrote about you taking the fall for your mother. How you went to juvenile detention. I hacked my way into those records on my own.”
Cole catches his breath when Tarasov mentions Megan, but when he finds out his sister didn’t betray him, he exhales, long and slow. “And my client list?” he asks. “You couldn’t hack my network.”
Tarasov nods, happy to agree, desperate to continue the conversation. “I couldn’t. You’re right. But I bought the information from one of your employees.”
“Who?”
Tarasov shivers like an overexcited puppy. “Tyler Orbach.”
Cole’s jaw tightens. He’s through with questions.
Tarasov senses the shift. “You shouldn’t feel too bad,” he says, too quickly. “It took a hundred grand before he gave you up. I’ll sign that money over to you right now. Everything you paid last month too. I’ll pay you for this month. Just give me access to a computer.”
Cole exhales slowly. He meets my gaze and nods without saying a word.
Tarasov screams, “Don’t let her do this! My obshchak will release everything if I die!”
Cole turns to face the wall.
His silence is the most valuable gift he’s ever given me. I resolve to make the very most of it.
I say to Tarasov, “He’s made his decision, gobshite. Now it’s your turn, you blackmailing, bratva-scheming, child-raping son of a bitch. Last choice.”
Every one of my words unstrings something in his body. By the time I get to choice, the expression on Tarasov’s face is something close to relief.
“Bullet?” I ask, showing him the gun. “Or bollocks?” I open the case and show him a row of gleaming scalpels.
Tarasov goes so still I can hear Cole breathing toward the wall. “Go to hell,” he finally says.
“I promise you, I’m an expert with a scalpel.”
“Go to fucking hell.”
“Last time, I admit, I cut too deep. But I watched what the doctor did when he sewed me up.” I show him the needle and thread. “I can save you before you lose too much blood.”
“Goddamn you to motherfucking hell!”
“You’ve given me so many choices,” I remind him. “Eighteen years ago, in that green-tiled jacks. One week ago, in that Dover motel. Now I’m doing the same for you. You can end your miserable excuse for a life with a bullet in your brain. Or you can live for many more years without your balls.”
“That’s not a choice.”
“Of course it’s a choice. End it cleanly, without much pain. Or explain to the entire Tarasov bratva that you chose to be tied up like a dog. You chose to wear that filthy dress. You chose life as a eunuch over an honorable death.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His teeth start to clatter so hard he can barely get the words out. “You d— don’t know the f— f— first thing about honor.”
“I did, once upon a time. When I was a little girl. Before someone broke me. Before they made me feral.”
“You’re a fucking lunatic!”
I look at him sadly. “I’m the fucking lunatic you created.”
Tarasov cranes his neck to look at Cole. “Wolf! You’re letting her do this?”
Cole turns around. “Of course not,” he says. “You’re letting her. It’s your choice.”
Tarasov shudders, like a massive dog throwing off rain. “The bratva will kill you for this,” he says to me.
“I’m terrified.”
“Your Canton Crew can’t protect you.”
“I never thought they would.”
“Your father’s a fucking vegetable. Your mother spread her legs for me, same as she did for half the bratva. She won’t save you now.”
“I don’t need saving.”
He splutters for a moment, clearly digging for more bile. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised when he starts to weep. “Lisichka. I never meant to hurt you. I was a stupid kid.”
“You were a bratva brigadier, old enough to negotiate on your pakhan’s behalf. I was the child.”
“You and I raided together. CyberGhost… You can’t forget all that.”
“I. Forget. Nothing. You raped me. You broke into my home. You filmed me debasing myself because you thought you had the upper hand. Which reminds me…”
I wait until he moans, “What?”
“Viktor. The software I gave you, that I said I stole from Cole? It’s a fake. It built a log of every site you went to. Your father will know every word you gave the feds about the bratva.”
His groan is louder than I ever dreamed he could manage. It’s the sound of a man standing at the gaping gates of hell.
“Enough,” I say. “Choose. Or else it’s bollocks first and then the bullet.”
“Go ahead,” he finally says. “Cut me.”
I have a ritual, rules I followed for every crimson scar upon my thighs.
Standing in front of the weeping Tarasov, I divide my hair into three thick sections. I braid them rapidly, end over end, tugging just enough to be certain the plait will stay in place. Inside my head, a bell rings, bright and clear.
Hair secure, I cross to the hose that curls against the wall. I wash my hands three times, rubbing hard on each pass. I don’t have soap, and I have to dry my hands on my T-shirt, but the bell chimes again. I’ve done enough.
I select a scalpel from my leather case. It’s a new one, clean. I never use a blade a second time. I test the edge against my thumb, pressing just hard enough to raise a red line. It’s sharp, exactly as it’s meant to be. For the third time, the bell echoes through my brain.
The leather case holds a tiny flask of alcohol, along with balls of cotton wool. I soak one in the clear fluid, and the sharp scent burns the inside of my nostrils. Holding the dripping cotton between two fingers, I collect scalpel, needle, and thread and cross the room to kneel beside my prisoner.
He yelps when the cold liquid hits his flesh. His bollocks try to hide inside his body, but I take my time, rubbing them, cleansing them. My belly tightens in disgust as I shift his limp dick out of the way. I nearly sob with relief when the bell confirms my task is done.
I take my phone out of my pocket. It’s 11:57. I’m good at measuring time in my head. Every scar I’ve ever earned was a lesson in counting out seconds, minutes, hours.
“Go on,” Tarasov growls through gritted teeth. “Do it.”
I wait, breathing in the stench of dead bodyguard and terrified man. The time flickers on my phone.
Finally, it’s midnight. I tighten my fingers around the scalpel and position the blade. I double-check to make sure the needle and thread are within easy reach. I grip his nutsack, holding his bollocks steady for the cut.
“Hey, Mask,” I say. “Ready to sell your soul for a fortune made of light?”
And then I break my rules.