Chapter 55
55
Kai
Kai always thought his death would come quick. A bullet to the brain. A well-placed switchblade. A swerving semi on a scantly lit road. But he never imagined he’d wake up to concrete before the grand finale—a prisoner awaiting execution. Gravel bit into his cheek as his face scraped against the floor. He groaned, pushed himself to his knees, then promptly toppled as pain rived through him, splitting his head. Eyes squeezed shut, he waited for the throbbing to ease. No matter how thick his skull was, a concussion was a concussion.
“Fuck.” His throat was parched, lightning shooting through his jaw the second he opened his mouth. Judging by the agony he was in, barely a few hours had passed since he’d blacked out. Nausea shredded his gut, and he forced himself to slow his breathing until the tumult subsided. When the hurt grew tolerable, he sat back on his calves and looked around. It was dark save for a hanging bulb that barely illuminated the ground outside his cell. And it was a cell, complete with iron bars and the stench of piss and blood. The piss, at least, wasn’t his.
Pressing the ball of his hand to his forehead, Kai massaged the ache away as best he could, then pulled himself to his feet. Nothing was broken, his joints working as intended. He rolled out his neck with a few satisfying pops, then curled his fingers around one of the bars. He gave it a rough jerk. It was sturdy.
“The fuck are you doing?” a voice snapped, and footsteps echoed through the empty corridor. Kai reckoned they were underground in one of Pyotr’s illicit torture holes where he sent men to die for displeasing him.
Unmoving, Kai left his hand on the bar. He recognized the voice, and the rancid scent of douchebag followed. His lip curled, the back of his scalp prickling as his hairs stood on end. Moments later, the man who’d beaten him unconscious appeared, shadows clinging to the grooves of his gaunt face. His hair was still too gelled, and his mouth twisted into a sneer upon seeing that Kai was awake.
“Have a nice nap?” he jibed.
Kai tapped his temple with two fingers and smirked. “Helped clear my head, thanks.”
“Cocky shit.” The mobster kicked the cell door, then spat at Kai’s hand. “Hey, paws off the bars.”
Ignoring the mucus dribbling down his knuckles, Kai’s gaze narrowed into a glare. “Or what?”
Teeth gnashing, the mobster flung his leg forward, aiming for Kai’s hand. He missed on the first few stomps. Kai remained motionless, expression bored, watching as this pathetic mass of impotent rage walloped away. The asshole wound back, then threw a wild kick that would’ve finally hit its mark.
Kai lifted his fingers from the bar and snatched the man’s ankle, tugging upward. Losing his balance, the goon fell like a traffic sign knocked over by a storm. His back hit the concrete, a ragged gasp pushing through his lungs.
Grinning fiendishly, Kai flicked off the mobster’s dress shoe and yanked his foot through the bars. He yelped, trying to claw his way farther from the cell to no avail. With his knee between two metal rods, Kai snapped his leg to one side, forcing the joint out of its socket, tearing the attached ligaments like a dry rubber band.
A torrid scream filled the concrete cavern, but Kai wasn’t concerned. If this was where Pyotr tortured people, it was sure to be soundproof.
“You like power?” Kai dragged him closer, clasping his belt. “You like hurting people who can’t fight back?” The mobster’s back bent to an excruciating angle as Kai hauled him upright with one arm, then released his belt to grasp him by the collar. With a grip like tempered steel, he pulled the man close, only the bars between their faces. Kai ignored his sour breath, the rim of tears in his eyes, the quiver of his lower lip. He scrabbled for his pistol, but Kai was faster, snatching it from its holster and whipping it at the wall so hard that it broke apart into a useless heap.
“I told you,” Kai said through a growl, “when it’s my turn, I won’t need a gun.”
He drew his elbow back as though ripping the spine from a snake. Momentum reeled the man forward, his face slamming into the iron. The satisfying crunch of a collapsing nasal cavity alerted Kai to a gnarly fracture. A strangled keen slipped from the mobster’s mouth as his jaw shattered with the second hit, blood pouring from every orifice in his rearranged face. Teeth knocked loose, bouncing off the bars and falling like chips. Still holding him by the shirt, Kai groped around his waistband until he found what he wanted: a set of keys, dangling from a belt loop. Unclipping them, Kai twirled the keyring around his finger, then smiled with all his teeth.
“Sleep well, you shitless brain tumor.” One more yank against the bars, one more splinter through brittle bone, and Kai dropped the man to the floor, his head cracking on the concrete. Crimson pooled around his mangled skull, the halo prettier than he ever was.
Kai swooned as he stepped out of the cell, dizziness nearly besting him. He still wore the same clothes—old jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, though his belt was gone, and his pockets were empty. They’d taken his wallet. Searching the mobster, he found his hunting knife strapped to the back of his belt. The dead man must’ve claimed it as a prize from the Confessional. The walls roiled when Kai tried to rise, and he steadied himself with a hand to the floor. Barking out an angry shout, he forced himself up.
It’d be fine. Fighting with a concussion was just like fighting drunk.
After pilfering the belt and fastening his knife to it, Kai shambled down the narrow corridor, scarcely aware of where he was going. He only noticed his boots were gone when he stepped on a sharp pebble. He could tell he was underneath an old building; the basement was a cellar that’d likely once been used for less nefarious purposes. Now, it was Pyotr’s personal prison. Kai stopped to banish the wave of nausea that overcame him as the hall tilted. He lost that battle, doubling over and puking his guts out on the cold gray floor. From behind the wall next to him, he heard a groan that wasn’t his and tipped his head to listen. There was a door just a few feet ahead. Kai spat out the bile and wiped his mouth. Pulling himself together, he fumbled for the keys he’d stolen, then tested each one until the lock clicked. The hinges screeched painfully in his ears as he pushed open the heavy metal door enough to squeeze through.
A man sat strapped to a chair, his wrists and ankles bound with rope, a burlap bag unceremoniously tossed over his head. His designer shirt was in tatters, his tie wound around his neck like someone had choked him with it. Poor bastard had gotten his share.
“Sergei,” Kai managed through a croak, then tripped further into the room.
The man in the chair stiffened, alert under the bag. He didn’t speak as Kai sliced through the bonds with his hunting knife. A bracelet of rope burn marred his wrists and ankles, and as Kai removed the sack, he winced at the sight. Sergei’s eye was swollen shut, his nose definitely broken, and his lips split and bruised. When he opened his mouth to speak, Kai saw several gaps in his teeth.
“I’ve got at least three broken ribs,” Sergei rasped, finally shifting to inspect his hands. Several of his fingers were bent wrong.
“You’re lucky you’re alive.” Kai gestured at his co-conspirator. “Can you walk?”
Sergei shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere until it’s clear upstairs. Pyotr will put us down like dogs.”
“Fortunately, I’m a wolf,” Kai cracked, and Sergei threw him a one-eyed glower.
“I can limp,” Sergei amended, “but I’m still not moving until it’s safe for a snail to crawl through.”
Kai nodded. “Fine. I’ll go upstairs and clear them out.”
“You look like you can barely stand.”
“I’m just drunk.”
Sergei looked him up and down, then grunted. “You have a concussion.”
“I hurled outside your door.” Kai shrugged. “It helped.” He wasn’t lying. The nausea had abated, and although he was still dizzy, he found it easier to plod in a respectable line.
“There’s something you should know,” Sergei said as he tested his joints. “I overheard that Zverev is on his way.” He looked up at Kai. “He’s bringing the girl.”
Any iota of steadiness that Kai had clawed back dissipated with Sergei’s words. If Zverev was bringing Caelan here, that meant only one thing.
The King of Spades was attacked.
A deluge swept Kai into the wall as he stumbled back. Ama had failed. A surge of anger took her shape, but worry quickly muddled the edges of his wrath. Ama was ferocious. She’d die before letting anything happen on her watch. Kai’s insides knotted up until his ribs cramped, his breaths shallowing. He tried to bite them back, but they slipped through his teeth until he fisted his hair in both hands and bowed over, an enraged snarl tearing from his throat.
All he could think about was Miya.
Miya, who embroiled herself in his messes, who threw herself in harm’s way to do the right thing. Miya, who gave him the spine to look in the mirror, to carve himself open and see what he was made of.
Miya, his whole fucking world, because without her, he’d be alone.
“What are you going to do?” Sergei’s voice cleaved him from his spiraling thoughts.
Kai dropped his arms to his sides and straightened from the wall. He pushed the turmoil under his skin, then deeper, beneath veins, muscle, and bone, far into his marrow where he would keep it locked away until he knew what to do with it.
“What I do best,” he said, the revulsion, vertigo, and heartache bleeding out until he felt hollow. It terrified him—that dark void, that absence in his chest—but it was all that moored him now. “Lose my fucking temper.”