49. Luca
LUCA
So this is what it feels like to have a noose around your neck. My mind rewinds to the day Dominic and I played hangman in the old Don’s basement, killing two random Russians. Turns out they weren’t so random, after all, but rather the catalyst for this whole fuck-up.
But that mess gave me Milana. My wife.
It was short, but I’ve lived a full life. Thanks to her, I got a taste of bliss. Of love. Of being with a woman who I could be with in the light—for myself. And she bared herself to me completely in misguided trust. Look where the fuck I landed us. I should have trusted my gut, but her baby—
Seeing her take Zoe from Masha almost broke me.
As much as she tried to school her face, she couldn’t hide her joy and relief, or her love for her baby girl.
Now I’m here, with a bullet that went straight through my thigh, limping around like a fucking idiot as I try to put enough pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.
No weapon, no backup, at the mercy of two trigger-happy Russians.
I know only one thing: I need to get us the fuck out of here. Milana doesn’t have it in her to pull the trigger. She might have the gun, but I can’t count on her, not when she’s looking after Zoe.
We’re in an open space, kitchen, dining, and sitting room all in one, a fire crackling in the central hearth.
It’s warm inside. The table has a camping gas stove, two cups, packs of cigarettes.
Lighters. Half-drunk tumblers of water. Could be vodka.
The men seem to have been hunkered down here for a couple of days already, waiting.
Tins of food are stacked in one corner, empty vodka bottles on the table, cigarette stubs in the ashtray.
Two backpacks, propped up in one corner, have clothes spilling out of their open tops.
The whole place reeks of old sweat, stale tobacco ash, and decay.
But there are only two of them. Two I could take on if the right opportunity came my way, provided they didn’t multiply.
Who knows the relation between this lot and the guys from the vans parked in front of Masha’s apartment.
They could be on their way as backup, or this could be two different Bratva factions poking around in the same salad.
I’ll have to bide my time, but I don’t have all night.
Masha is still the x in my fucking equation, and as long as she doesn’t lose her shit, we might get somewhere.
Here’s the problem: Masha has no shits left to give.
Nothing left to lose. I see her now in the flickering light of the fire.
The map the acid burned on her face. The continents on the sea of her once-smooth and perfect skin.
The parts of her that didn’t get burned are beautiful.
Her uninjured eye is a deep blue, her lashes thick, just like her hair, or what’s left of it.
Her hand is a dripping faucet of blood, but she doesn’t even bother to pinch the wound closed.
He shot two fingers off. They’re somewhere outside in the snow. The perfect wolf taster.
The two Russians grumble something to each other, eyes never leaving us, guns pointing at our heads, then one kicks a chair toward me and indicates I should sit. The other has Masha by the hair and forces her to sit in another chair, opposite me.
They don’t talk. While the one Russian stands guard, the other uses zip ties to bind our wrists to the wooden chairs’ arms, which are handcrafted and rustic.
I flex my wrist to leave as wide a gap as possible, gripping the armrest. When he is done, they stare at us as they strip off their thick camouflage jackets.
Now they’re only wearing long-sleeved T-shirts and cargo pants, which accentuate their middle-aged guts.
I definitely have the height and fitness advantage when it comes to these guys, but now that I’m tied to a chair, the odds are no longer in my favor.
One turns his back on us to light two cigarettes. They finish whatever is in the tumblers, and I deduce the routine as they smoke. They are preparing themselves to do things to us. To make us talk.
Fuck my life.
This was bound to happen to one of us Scalera boys sooner or later. Tables turn. People fuck up. Idiots get caught and are made to confess. Lucky Luca. One last time.
They kill their cigarettes in the overflowing make-shift ashtray and the one man turns to the hearth and prods at the logs with an iron poker. He shoves it into the red-hot coals and balances it against another chair to make it stay put.
Ah, fuck. The joys. I steel myself.
Masha shifts in her seat and catches my gaze.
We haven’t even collaborated to get our story straight.
Now we’re fucked. At least there’s no noise coming from the room Milana is in.
I bet she’s trying not to attract any attention to her, keeping Zoe quiet at all costs.
I don’t want her to witness this shit, either. She’s been through enough.
The one Russian walks up to me and slaps me lightly in the face. “Pretty boy. We leave face for last.”
I smirk. “Thank you.”
He turns to Masha. “A baby, eh? Who fuck face like this?”
His English is a bit cryptic, but he is speaking it for my benefit. If only I can fuck his face up right now.
“In the dark,” Masha says, her voice cutting, “I’m just a body to fuck. Men don’t have standards.”
The man nods. “Chertnikov not fuck this.”
He flicks her burnt cheek with a fingertip, and rage simmers in me. That fucker.
Masha doesn’t even flinch. She sighs and says something in Russian, then switches to English. “His son did.”
A brow shoots up, and the Russian grips her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “He has no sons left.”
“Dimitri Mikhailov. His illegitimate son. His only living son. Back there is Chertnikov’s only living grandchild.” She says something in Russian, probably repeating herself to make sure he understands.
The men look at each other. Shrug nonchalantly, but I can read them. So fucking classic. They just confirmed the one thing they were unsure of. What they don’t know is Masha is lying. Let’s keep it that way.
They speak to each other in Russian, starting to argue, and I don’t follow, but Masha smirks.
“They need to let ‘head office’ know,” she translates softly for me.
“But there’s zero internet here and their satellite phone isn’t working.
They have no backup. Fucking amateurs. They’d need to hike twenty kilometers to where there’s one bar of reception.
By the way, if you shoot through the forest, going straight north, you cut out fifteen of those kilometers.
Meet up with the main road. Just saying.
” She tilts her chin up, as if she just told me where I’ll find the last hidden Easter egg.
One bike. In the barn. Two helmets.
Fuck. She’s telling me her escape plan. But there are four of us.
“One of them should definitely go,” I say as they keep bickering. Leave me only one man to eliminate.
I take stock of the room again, taking in details I missed earlier.
Their handguns are now discarded on the table, next to a half-eaten loaf of rye bread with a hunting knife pierced into it.
Some salami-like meat and a triangle of cheese.
Two hunting rifles lean against a far wall, well out of reach.
There’s a bookshelf with candles, several flashlights, and a first-aid kit.
The one Russian reaches for another bottle of vodka and throws the empty one into the fire, making sparks dance up into the chimney.
Just men being men. I have no expectations of these guys getting drunk on a bottle of vodka.
Russians can stomach a lot of the shit before they even get tipsy. They drink it like water.
“Now you,” he says as he hands a tumbler to his friend. “Talk.”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, still clueless how I’m going to get us out of here.
“Who you work for?”
“Myself.” That’s no lie.
“What job.”
Well…what would they like to hear? Sticking to the truth but keeping it vague is usually the best option.
“Porn,” I say, looking him dead in the eye.
The man laughs, turns to say something to his friend in Russian.
“You make porn for a living?” Masha asks, playing into my game.
“Not exactly, but I’m always up for a good time.”
“Your girlfriend. She make porn?” the other Russian asks, stepping closer, and I can see where their minds are going. Us putting on a show for them. Them taking turns with Milana while I’m forced to watch. My blood boils, but I keep a poker face.
“I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
At this, the man cocks a brow, leans back to pluck the knife from the bread, and without ceremony slices my winter jacket open from the neck straight to the bottom. He folds it open, revealing my sweater. He cuts through it too. Then my fucking T-shirt. Dude.
I breathe, that blade way too close for comfort. He folds the fabric away from my body, revealing my chest, peels away the layers from my shoulders leaving me as exposed as he can, what with my hands strapped to the chair.
The silence in the room becomes like the breath I’m holding, already straining for air. All eyes are on me, on the blade, and what the fucker is going to do next.
“Good shape. Man who exercise much. Too much.” He runs the blade’s tip over my shoulder muscles, from my traps to my deltoids, to caress the sharp edge down my biceps. A chill spreads like frost over my body. My stomach churns. “Big cock, eh?”
I huff, overly conscious of Masha’s one eye wide on me, her compulsive swallowing. How she’s jerking against her bonds. Not my plan, either, sweetheart.
“Yep,” I say, with just enough brag in my voice. “I’d like to keep it that way if you don’t mind.”
The knife is now on my pec, circling my nipple, and fuck my body for its reaction, for hardening.
This type of kink has never been in my playbook.
The moment the blade pierces my skin, I hiss in a breath and freeze.
I close my eyes, not wanting to see how deep or far this fucker is going to slice into me.
The pain is there, but I bite down on my jaw, refusing to let Milana know things are going downhill fast on this side of the cabin.
“Pretty fuck boy. Fuck lot of woman,” he teases, the blade piercing, his voice like syrup. “You make good porn? Fuck hard? You fuck men, too?”
Jesus. I might even get it up the ass tonight. These guys might just be out here, living a romantic fantasy of their own while on the job. As they say, what happens at the cabin stays at the cabin.
“Not sure how this is relevant?” I say, keeping my cool. “I’m Italian. The rumor is true. Italians do it best. Now fuck off with the knife, man. I’m booked on three shoots next week.”
The man chuckles, lifts the knife away, and warm blood runs down my stomach. Two wounds down, both bleeding. How many until I bleed out? Dominic would know. It’s science.
The blade is on my chin as he tilts my head up with it. “This Italian business. Explain how American-Italian porn star come to Russia with Russian girlfriend who ‘nanny’ this bitch baby? Hmm?”
“I hired her. She’s only the nanny,” Masha cuts in. “He came with for the ride.”
And what a ride it’s been.
But they ignore her. She’s been dismissed as only a woman, weak and useless. I’m starting to suspect Masha is the master chess player out of the lot of us, except these folks have a game plan she didn’t see coming. Once things are back on track though, she’s going to surprise us all.
The other Russian, who has been on standby, pours himself another vodka and says, without looking up, “Too many Italians lately. Here. There. Everywhere. Irritating little fucks.”
I quirk a brow. This is news. Who knew there was a locust infestation of Italians on this side of Russia.
My tormenter walks to the table, takes a deep swallow of his drink, then shoves the heavy table toward me. That vodka bottle would make a nice weapon once I bashed off the bottom. It’s no gun, but to a protruding gut protected only by the thin cotton of a T-shirt, it’s lethal.
“Where in America you from?” my man asks, putting down his tumbler.
“Boston.” I see no point in lying.
They shoot glances at each other. The knife is back, in my peripheral vision, and chills flood through me. Dominic has lived through this. Survived this. Again and again. At the hand of the fucking Don—our father.
If he can do it, so can I.
The man doesn’t touch me but lifts my jacket and slices it away, a mad tailor destroying the work on a mannequin.
He cuts all the fabric away from my body, tossing the shreds to the floor.
It was a down jacket, and now dainty feathers float around like dust motes, irrelevant.
I’m left in my jeans and boots, vulnerable skin exposed, the fire light playing over it with a lover’s quiet caress.
I know what’s coming next. I can read the room.
The man homes in on my inner arm, making me twist my hand to reveal my tattoo.
“What does mean?” he asks.
The gothic script is hard to read for an untrained eye. “It’s in your blood.”
“What?”
I shrug. “My father. He’s in my blood. I’m from his blood.”
But I’m also my mother, and I’d like to think I’m more a product of her nurture than his nature.
“Dumb.” The man dismisses my comment and with it my whole fucked-up heritage.
Well, it isn’t exactly something you explain in words to a fucker like this; it’s more something you demonstrate.
The other Russian speaks, and I breathe out, glad we’re not quite at the branding phase of this session yet. They’re arguing again, and the only word I catch is Chertnikov, again and again.
Masha tracks though, and mouths to me, “They’re looking for an Italian with snake tattoos that cover his whole body. Everywhere except his face, apparently. A guy in the Mafia with connections to Sicily.”
My poker face is still in place, but my mind is reeling.
I know an Italian with that description.
I did, after all, in my capacity as undertaker, see his body—all of it, without hands and his face beaten to a pulp—go into our promession site.
His skin a picture book for adults. A shrine to one man’s tattoo addiction.
Franco Fiore.