Chapter 12
LIAM
As I lean my shoulder against the door and quietly turn the knob, I think about what my pretty wife’s going to look like on our wedding day.
Auburn hair spilling down her shoulders. Or maybe twisted into some complicated braid on her head. White dress hugging her curves. Will she go traditional and conservative? Or maybe piss her father off and flaunt her lovely figure?
I slip my lockpicks back into my pocket and listen quietly in the dim apartment’s foyer for several long seconds.
How will I kiss her when the priest says the words? Should I make it quick and chaste? Or deep and lovely, let her know that she’s mine? Make her knees quake?
And the wedding night itself…
I know what she’ll say. Oh Liam, this is just a business arrangement between our families, I couldn’t possibly suck your throbbing cock and ride you until I scream myself into oblivion! Something like that, anyway.
But I suspect she’ll willingly wrap her pretty legs around my hips and moan as I sink deep inside her.
I’m buzzing with lewd thoughts as I move deeper into the apartment.
The cheap old wood creaks under my footsteps but I don’t hear anything stir.
The living area’s messy and cramped with old furniture around a decent television mounted to the wall.
The kitchen’s surprisingly neat, if a little tight.
I pick up a tin of what looks like Russian cookies and peek inside.
Coffee grounds. I sniff and toss them aside. Cheap coffee grounds.
This is usually the part where I start searching the place, but I don’t have the time or the inclination. Instead, I angle toward the back hall, bypass the bathroom and head for the closed bedroom door.
Fucker’s snoring. Loudly too.
I push open the door and sneak inside.
The bedroom’s got a dresser to the left with photographs of dour-looking old men and women. Probably his family back in Russia if I had to guess. I creep to the bed as the big sleeping man snorts, rolls onto his side, and smacks his lips.
Hairy bastard. He could use a trim. I smile to myself and flick a knife from my back pocket, running the sharpened blade against my thumb.
“Wake up, Peter.”
The big man snorts and mutters. I rip his sheets off and suppress a groan.
He’s butt ass naked, like a bear with alopecia. His dick sags over ugly balls. I consider slicing them off, just to get the party started, but instead lean over the bed and grab him by the hair.
“I said, wake the fuck up.”
He grunts and jerks awake. His eyes shoot open and he roars in shock, but I expected this. I push the blade of the knife to his cheek and slice, ending with the sharp edge to the soft part of his throat.
Blood bubbles from the cut skin.
He babbles something in Russian, eyes wild and wide in the darkness, his right hand reaching for the nightstand.
“English, Peter.”
He gathers himself. To his credit, he’s struggling against his fear. It's not easy to get woken up in the middle of the night to a knife-wielding crazy man by the side of your bed.
“Who… are you? What… are you doing here?”
“My name’s Liam. I’m here to ask you some questions.”
He grunts, gaze darting around. “Liam. Whelan?”
“That’s right.” I climb onto the bed and put a knee into his gut. He groans as I lean on him, the blade still at his throat. “Hands by your side, please.”
He pulls them back. “You know who I am?”
“Peter Reshnikov. What do they call you in your family? Peter the Butcher?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Then you know exactly how this is going to go.” I press the knife tighter.
“You’re going to answer my questions. If you do a good job, I might settle for maiming instead of killing.
Your bosses will be upset, but at least I won’t have to deal with your body.
But, if you’re a pain in my ass—“ I let his imagination do the work. He’s a clever, violent man, and he knows exactly what’ll happen.
His breathing quickens. “What do you want?”
“Kieren Foley. Do you know that name?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s dating my boss’s daughter.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Honestly?” Peter’s nose wrinkles. “Not my kind of man.”
“Why not?”
“Too soft. Too confident. A man like that, who talks a lot, he quickly learns what is good to say and what isn’t.”
“Punchable face?”
“Yes. Very punchable.”
I lean more weight into my knee. Peter grunts in response. “What did he take from his employer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Peter, come on now, play along. Don’t make this messy.”
“I don’t know! They don’t tell me that kind of thing.”
“You run security for the old man, don’t you?”
“Da, yes, Boris Baranov is my employer.”
“Then surely you’ve heard something. Come on, big guy. Give me something.”
Sweat dribbles down his forehead. I hate this part, where the panic starts to kick in. He’s trying to think of some way out of this situation. Maybe he’s thinking he can fight, maybe if he moves fast enough, he might even win. The element of surprise and all that.
I whip the knife away from his neck and jab it down hard into his right eye.
Peter screams. He flails knocking me sideways as his hands come up to the blade.
He bucks like a dying hog, and honestly, it’s impressive, if a little bit much.
Blood and eye juice covers my hand. I wipe it off on his comforter and slip another knife from my belt.
When he begins to calm, I grab him by the hair and drag him onto the floor, leaving a nasty trail on the sheets.
“Deep breath, big guy, this is going to hurt.” I grab the hilt of the knife.
“No, wait, no, please—“
I rip it out.
He screams. I knew he would. This time, I muffle his cries with a pillow shoved against his face. I shush him softly and flick away the gore-covered eye. It skitters like a squashed grape across the floor.
“There, there, it’s okay, big guy, it’s all over. You’re okay. You’re alive! And just think, you earned a new nickname tonight!”
“Fuck you,” he hisses when I move the pillow away.
I kick him in the face. He grunts and falls onto his side. I straddle him, knife pressed to his neck, point right in the soft spot at the top of his chest. He’s hissing in breaths, bloody gore rolling down his cheek.
“Let’s try again. Tell me about Kieren. What did he take?”
“I don’t know!”
“Do you have any idea how badly he hurt my future wife? She’s so pissed at that guy, and in any other situation, I wouldn’t care.
What’s she to me? But I’m marrying her, which means she’s my responsibility, for better or for worse.
So help me out. I want to get her some closure. What did Kieren take?”
“I don’t give a fuck about your future wife you—“ He starts cursing at me in Russian.
I jab the new knife into his left eye.
Peter does not like that. He mewls like a baby and twists around, doing the spinning crocodile. I step back and watch him flop about, his tiny dick slapping his inner thigh. More blood streaks the floor.
“Okay, okay, I got you, I got you.”
“My eyes! I can’t see, my God, I can’t see!”
I leave the knife where it is and draw a third, running the blade across his neck. That gets Peter’s attention. “I’ll pull it out if you ask nicely."
“No, please don’t. I need… hospital… please…”
“Kieren. Talk.”
“I don’t know anything! I don’t—“ He hisses when I cut him. It’s not doing anything for me at this point. Peter’s putting up a decent fight, but god, it’s so boring. We both know eventually he’ll break. Hopefully we’re skipping ahead to that part now.
“Do us both a favor and talk, please.”
“Okay, okay,” he says desperately. “I know… he had help. I heard him bragging about it. I don’t know what he took… but he couldn’t get the information on his own. Please, that’s everything!”
“Huh.” I sit back in genuine surprise. I had no clue there’s another traitor. That means whoever helped Kieren is probably still working at the construction firm. “That’s helpful.”
“Please… call an ambulance… leave me here… I won’t tell anyone. I swear I won’t!”
“Here’s the thing though, Peter. Remember earlier? When I told you my name? You had to have realized what would happen the second you heard it, right?”
“No… no… please!”
I cut his throat. It brings me as much pleasure as slicing open an package. Except this is much bloodier. Peter gurgles and kicks, making a damn fucking mess. I step back and watch him expire, which is the least I can do.
Peter the Butcher deserved worse, if I’m honest with myself. He’s done some shitty things if what I’ve heard is remotely true. And if it’s not? He earned that nickname somehow, and I doubt it’s because he’s good at making sandwiches and roasting pork.
“Pain in my ass,” I mutter, kicking his corpse once he stops thrashing.
Blood business, this whole murder-and-torture stuff, but at least I got a lead.
Peter’s big, dead body takes a while to deal with. I’m tired when I get home pushing three in the morning. It’s dead on the streets. I’m thinking about traitors, about information sieving through my family’s fingers, about dead Russians, when I stop in the middle of the lobby and turn to my left.
She’s curled up on a couch asleep.
Well, fuck. I should leave her. Whatever Regan’s doing here, it isn’t good. That girl only ever shows up at my place when there’s hell to pay.
Or for very good sex.
Mostly sex so far.
With a breath, I kneel down beside her and give her shoulder a gentle shake.
This is the second person I’ve woken up tonight.
Her eyes blink at me. Big, beautiful eyes. “Liam.” She sits up, pulling away. “Shit. Was I asleep?”
“You were indeed.”
“Fuck. What time is it?” She checks her phone and groans. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t be here this late.”
“How long were you out for?”
“A few hours. It doesn’t matter.” She squints at me, mouth pulling tight as she takes me in. “Is that blood?”
I look down at myself. “Probably. Where?”
“On your sleeve. And in your hair. Liam, you’re a mess. What’s going on?” She fusses at me like she’s looking for a wound.