Chapter 21 IZZY
IZZY
The rope cuts into my wrists every time I move.
It’s tight, rough, the kind of cheap industrial cord that burns skin if you pull against it wrong. My hands are tied behind the metal chair, my shoulders already aching from the angle.
But the men who tied me didn’t search me very well.
Or maybe they didn’t think a waitress with a concussion could be much of a threat.
Slowly, carefully, I twist my fingers toward the back pocket of my jeans.
The tip of the house key presses against my knuckle.
Across the warehouse, Pavlov stands near a table like he owns the place—which, I guess, for the moment he does. His men are spread out around the room. Two near the door. One near Noah.
My son is still sitting on the floor in the other room, visible through the half-open doorway. One of the guards let him keep his backpack like that makes this whole thing humane.
His eyes keep darting toward me.
Every time he looks like he might cry again, my heart fractures a little more.
I slide the key between the rope and my wrist. The metal edge presses into the fibers. If I can keep this up long enough, it could work.
But I need Pavlov distracted.
“You know,” I say loudly, “for a criminal mastermind you talk a lot.”
His pale eyes slide toward me.
“I’ve noticed that about villains,” I continue. “They love explaining their plan. Very theatrical.”
One of the guards snorts.
Vladimir Pavlov smiles faintly. “You want to understand why this is happening,” he says.
“Wouldn’t you?” I answer. “You kidnapped my kid. I’d like to know the motivation before I write the Yelp review.”
His smile widens slightly. “Curiosity is dangerous, Ms. Hartwell. Just ask the cat.”
“Kidnapping is illegal,” I shoot back. “Yet here we are.”
Behind my back, the key scrapes carefully against the rope.
One fiber gives.
Pavlov walks a slow circle around the room.
“What do you know about the Borough War?” he asks.
I blink. I hadn’t expected that question. “Only that Nico’s mother died in it.”
Something dark flickers in his expression. “Yes,” he says, with a bit of enthusiasm. “She did.”
My fingers keep sawing at the rope.
“What you do not know,” he continues, “is that the war did not start the way people believe.”
I glance at him.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You’re about to tell me it was all part of some brilliant plan.”
“It was,” he agrees easily. “My father’s plan. Igor Pavlov. A visionary man.”
The rope shifts slightly under the key.
Another thread loosens.
“The Italians controlled New York then,” Vladimir continues. “Five families. Five boroughs. But there was constant infighting. They kept weakening each other. Not enough to be overtaken, but plenty of good soldiers got lost in their territorial scuffs.”
His eyes flick briefly toward me.
“My father understood something they did not.”
“What’s that?”
“That chaos can be encouraged.”
My stomach tightens.
“The inciting incident of the Borough War,” he says calmly, “was the death of the Neri queen.”
My hands freeze for half a second. “Nico’s mother.”
“Yes.” His voice is almost conversational now. “My father had me pull the trigger.”
The words land like a punch.
“You’re lying,” I say automatically.
“I was young,” Vladimir continues, ignoring me. “My first kill. I still dream about it.” His gaze goes distant for a moment, almost nostalgic. “Don’t worry. She died quickly. A clean shot.”
My stomach churns. “You’re a monster.”
“Perhaps,” he says lightly. “But we’re all monsters in the end.”
Nico isn’t, I want to scream, but I bite my tongue. Because he’s pacing and monologuing now, and I have him exactly where I want him, and if I make him mad, I’m done.
I keep silent. The key cuts deeper into the rope.
“The beauty of the plan,” he goes on, “was what came after. We pinned the killing on one of the other families. The Neris retaliated. Then the others retaliated back.”
His smile returns.
“The Italians slaughtered each other for years. Exactly as my father intended.”
The rope loosens slightly around my wrist.
Hope flickers inside me.
“And then,” Pavlov says with a note of irritation, “the goddamn Neris ruined everything.”
I look up.
“A child,” he says, almost spitting the word. “Not even thirteen. Niccolò Neri.”
My heart stutters.
“He convinced the others to stop fighting. Brokered a truce.” His jaw tightens. “They rebuilt. They unified. And by the time my father’s Bratva moved to take the city…” He spreads his hands. “They weren’t easy pickings anymore.”
The rope is almost cut through.
“My father died without seeing his dream fulfilled,” Vladimir continues quietly. “But I’m finishing it.”
“Why?” I ask, because I honestly can’t wrap my head around it. All this senseless violence.
His pale eyes lock onto mine. “That first kill should have meant something. Blood should not be spilled without purpose.”
Nico’s mom. My heart clenches for her. And for the horrible way this monster speaks of her, like she’s a trophy he was denied.
“You murdered a woman,” I say. “And let thousands die to cover it.”
He’s nonchalant. “History remembers winners, Ms. Hartwell.”
“And Nico?” I ask curiously.
His lips curve. “The black king.”
“Huh?”
“Neri,” he says. “Black, in your language.” His gaze sharpens. “Kings fall through their queens, Ms. Hartwell. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my father, it’s that.”
My fingers give one last pull.
The rope is almost—
“My sons lost sight of that,” Vladimir continues. “Georg. Anton. Even the bastard, Sasha. My nephew Viktor. They got themselves slaughtered or forced into hiding by the other Dons while chasing petty victories.”
“But you’re different?” I mock him.
“Yes. Because I remember the mission.”
The rope snaps.
Freedom floods through my wrists—
Before I can move, Vladimir suddenly steps forward.
His hand shoots out and grabs my hair.
Pain explodes across my scalp as he yanks me to my feet.
The key falls from my hand and clatters to the concrete.
My heart stops.
“I admire persistence,” he says calmly.
My stomach drops. “You knew what I was doing?”
“Of course.” He glances down at the key on the floor. “You almost had it.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
“You should have waited.”
His other hand pulls a knife from inside his jacket.
The blade glints under the warehouse lights.
“I was going to keep you alive,” he says thoughtfully. “Let Neri watch his queen suffer.”
My breath catches.
“But now…” he sighs faintly. “This is simpler.”
The blade presses lightly against my throat.
Behind us, Noah screams.
“Mom!”
Tears blur my vision.
“Don’t worry,” Vladimir says quietly. “Your son will follow shortly. I won’t make you watch. Consider it my gift to you, Ms. Hartwell.”
My entire body goes cold.
He wants to kill Noah.
He’s going to murder my son.
Then rage explodes through me.
Not as long as I fucking breathe.
I slam my forehead into Vladimir’s face—hard.
The crack of bone echoes through the warehouse.
He staggers back with a curse. “Blyat’—!”
I twist free and lunge toward the doorway.
“Noah!”
Hands grab me before I make two steps.
One of the guards punches me hard in the ribs. Air explodes from my lungs.
Vladimir wipes blood from his nose.
“You really are spirited,” he says.
He steps forward again, knife raised.
Across the room Noah is sobbing, reaching for me.
“Mom!”
The blade lifts toward my throat. My whole life flashes before my eyes.
I’m sorry, Noah. I’m sorry I was such a bad mother. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better life. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say “I love you” back this morning.
I’m sorry I won’t be there for you.
But your father will be. I’m sure of it.
Nico… He will come for you.
Like he was going to come for me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears stream down my cheeks.
I’m sorry, Nico.
I’m sorry I wasted seven years.
I’m sorry I won’t be able to have that future we talked about with you. That I won’t get to be your queen after all.
Goodbye.
Then—
The warehouse doors explode inward.
Metal crashes against concrete. Every head in the room turns.
And Nico’s voice cuts through the chaos like thunder.
“Hands off my queen, you piece of shit.”