Chapter 60
Hanging up from my call with Zeno leaves a strange feeling circulating through my insides. Instead of focusing on it for long, I bottle it up until I’m able to unleash it onto the man who deserves it the most.
When my bike comes to a rumbling stop outside the warehouse Anastasia directed me to, I’m stuck. Stuck to the bike, my insides numb. I’m ready to go inside, ready to end this, ready to head into a future where Boris Agapov no longer exists.
The sun is nearly gone, casting a deep auburn and rosy glow over the undescriptive brick building. It’s fitting that as the day comes to a close, a life is about to end. When the sun rises over this warehouse in approximately twelve hours, Boris will be nothing more than a stain on my soul.
It’s that vow urging me off my bike and toward the warehouse door where two soldiers stand guard. One nods his greeting as I approach, the other utters, “Pakhan.”
“He awake?”
“Whatever the Italians knocked him out with started to wear off around the time Lev got him down here, so he injected him again, and he’s been out ever since.”
“ Spasibo . You may go.”
They acknowledge with a nod and disappear around the corner. I wait until their car is halfway down the road before entering the building. The large metal door creaks and cries from age.
My eyes start adjusting to the dimmer lighting in the warehouse, which casts the corners into shadows. Luckily, the centre of the room is bright enough I’m able to see my captive. He’s the stream from Anastasia’s phone earlier, come to life. His body is slumped in the same position, useless.
But he wasn’t always.
My body won’t stop shaking but not from the chill. If anything, I’m hot. A feverish, overheated kind of hot.
Is this shock?
Maybe. Must be.
It’d explain why my body’s temperature took such a dive when he finally climbed off me. When he stopped violating me long enough that his dick softened for good this time. This time because just when I believed this entire night couldn’t be worse than the acts committed, it was. Whatever drugs the asshole took prepared him to extend my pain as long as possible.
Three rounds.
Three times his disgusting DNA has marked my insides.
Three fucking times of me pleading, “No more,” all for him to ignore me.
This time, when he finished and pulled out of me, my insides cried in extreme pain before becoming numb. Difficult to feel at all when I don’t understand how to process this.
He rolls to his feet, gathering his clothes and keeping his back to me. Good. He better not turn around. Better not look my way. He’s done enough for a lifetime— more than a lifetime, actually.
If I had any power in the Bratva, I’d promise his death, but even doing so in my own head is useless. The first time he shoved inside me, I promised to kill him, but as every round passed, he robbed more and more of that will. No matter what I said, no matter what I did, nothing changed. So neither would my useless, silly childhood attempts to one day slaughter him. It’s only a vow I’m setting myself up to be disappointed by.
The man turns—still unnamed but I pledge to learn it—while fixing his sleeves. Once he’s done, he reaches for my face, and while I attempt to twist away, he’s quick to grab my chin and force me to look at him.
“You performed remarkably, Miss Volkov. As I’ve said earlier, claiming your first time is something I’ll never forget.”
That wasn’t what he said. He used the term unused cunt. It’s seared into my mind.
“I’ll be sure to let my associates know you’re a price worth paying. Now...” He releases me to straighten, jerking his jacket shut and buttoning it up. “...if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with your father.”
He spins on his heel and walks away, leaving a broken girl.
I blink, returning to the present as I slowly pace forward. It’s fitting to see Boris like this because once, I was the one who was bound when he ignored my every plea.
I can’t wait to repay the favour.
Three rounds. Once wasn’t enough for the sick fucker. Three goddamn times I was forced to feel him inside me, hear his satisfied groan in my ear, endure his hot breath on my neck.
Three rounds. Maybe I’ll do the same. Maybe I’ll manage to keep him alive for four. Or, double it and make it six.
I stand in front of the man who took two years of my life. Two years of hunting him all comes down to this moment.
And I feel nothing.
Absolutely nothing as I stare at the older version of my assaulter. His hair is receded and lighter in colour. His skin shows signs of stress and age. Wrinkles line his eyes, which in my memory only had one look in them: cruelty.
I drag a chair over from where they’re stored by the corner, not bothering to lift it. Metal against cement makes a similar sound to nails on a chalkboard, but unfortunately, the drugs are too strong and keep him knocked out.
I position the chair two feet away and drop onto the metal seat, crossing my arms and legs to wait him out.
After all these years, I’ll be waiting as long as it takes.
His awakening is a bit disappointing. If he’s frightened, he hides it well, as he straightens his head, gaze quickly darting around the empty warehouse before centring on me. He stares for a moment before blinking in recognition, his grin slow and malicious, reminding me of when he approached the bed all those years ago.
“My oh my, Miss Volkov. Look how grown up you are. Took your papa’s place and everything.”
“You don’t seem shocked to be here.”
He watches me stand and drag my chair off to the side. “Since your father’s death, I knew it was only a matter of time before you came for me.”
“Fear is a sign of guilt.”
His dark gaze surveys me up and down, his lips picking up in the corner. “That night was worth it. As were all the others. You’re the only one to follow through on her death threats, mind you, but you’re also the only one with the means to do so.”
Back then, this was all a fever dream I never thought would come true. He’s alluding to more girls, reminding me of a comment he made then too.
Keeping my tone casual, I tuck my bangs behind my ear to better see him. See how he reacts when responding. “Should I be jealous there were others before me?” Even saying it makes my swallow sour but for now, I’ll play along.
Boris lifts one frail shoulder in a half-shrug. “And after. You’d be surprised what men will give up for a good deal. Their daughters’ first times, for one.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I ask the question I really don’t want to know the answer to, but being compelled to have all the facts. “What was the youngest?”
He hums, looking to the side. “Ten, I believe.”
“Bol'noy ublyudok.”
He smirks. “Depends your definition of a—what’d you refer to me as?—a ‘sick fucker’? If you’re planning on succeeding as Pakhan, you need tougher skin, Vanessa.”
Hearing my name in his mouth makes my skin crawl.
“How I hear it,” he continues, “is you’re not tough at all. You dismantled your papa’s empire. He was a king in the skin trade, and now the Bratva’s a joke.”
After years of dealing with Ivan’s insults, everything Boris says slides right off me. Maybe once, his comments would have bothered me, but now, they mean nothing. He’s nothing.
“What’d you give the Cosa Nostra in exchange for hiding you?”
His mouth parts in an ah motion. “It’s a shame they handed me over. Money, to answer your question. I was made aware of the longstanding rivalry between the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra and reached out. Brokered a deal for a place in their territory, assuming you’d never think to look there. Damn traitors.” He mumbles the last part.
“Do your homework better next time, Boris.” My casual use of his name takes away some of his power. “The people you paid isn’t the one my family’s been at war with. In fact, I only found you because of my enemies. Funny how life works out.”
He looks down, licking his bottom lip, his eyes a mask when he finds me again. “Well, Miss Volkov, it’s a shame it’s come to this. After all, women are usually much more forgiving in business.”
“My papa taught me well. You’d know best how ruthless he could be. While the show you’re putting on is amusing, it’s a fa?ade. By the end of the night, I’ll have you begging for mercy.”
“Like you did for me.” His snake-like grin slithers from his face and wraps my ankles, the same way the rope tying them to the bed once did. But unlike that rope, I won’t allow it to bother me.
“You accept the promise of death so easily.” I step to the side, melding deeper into the shadows, and he tracks me as far as his head can turn. “I expected more panic.”
“Like I said, I knew you’d be coming at some point. I accepted it two years ago.”
“Then it’s a shame you were found. A lifetime of looking over your shoulder sounds like a decent punishment too.” Not good enough. Nowhere near enough, but there’s poetry in him running for his life.
Boris straightens as much as the rope around his ankles and wrists allows him to. “Promise me one thing.”
Never. Pretending to play along, I come to a stop in front of him, head tipping to the side. “What’s that?”
“Tell my wife and daughter I’m dead.”
Once, I was a daughter who was sold to this very man, and while Papa is as much to blame, he’s no longer here to pay his dues. It’s Boris who made the deal. Boris whose little dick violated an innocent part of me. A part no child should be forced to give up. Whether at fifteen or at ten, an even more disgusting age.
“You didn’t care when I was someone’s daughter. Yours will be better off without you tainting her life.”
I retrieve a knife from my holster and his eyes widen slightly. He shifts in place and licks his lips, which tells me as much as he claims to have accepted death, he hasn’t. Mortality is a strange notion, and when faced with it, it can become unbearable.
Stepping closer, I bend, lining my face up with his. Again, he attempts to maintain his fa?ade of resilience but his shudder reveals his true emotions. I place the knife’s sharp tip at his cheekbone and trace a line downwards to his chin. Nothing deep enough to nick—yet.
“As for your wife, well…” I smile. “‘Til death do you part.”
My knife continues, hovering over his heart. It’d be too quick when we still have hours upon hours of fun to have. But he doesn’t know that and leans back, like he has any hope of escape.
The knife passes over his stomach, momentarily touching nothing when he sucks in such a deep breath, it caves in his gut. “P-please. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“That’s very cute. I like it when they plead.”
His jolts, recognizing the same words he once spoke to me. When I pleaded, he cruelly cast it aside.
“Vane—”
I cut him off, not caring about his pathetic attempts to appeal to my humanity. “You beg so easily for a man who claimed he wouldn’t. Guess that’s what happens when death hovers nearby. You came inside me— violated me—three. Fucking. Times. You ignored me when I begged. Laughed when you parted my thighs. Referred to me as an unused cunt that you’d never forget. For so long, I hoped you’d forget me, until two years ago, then I needed you to remember me. Every single part so when I finally caught your ass, you’d know precisely what you did to deserve this. It’s going to be a long night ahead.”
I move the knife right over his lap, where his shriveled-up dick is hiding within his clothing.
My eyes flash up. I grin.
There will be no mercy. No freedom. No life after today.
I will live up to my nickname now more than ever, and if I don’t, then I fail myself and all the other girls he raped.
“Let’s play a little game, Mr. Agopov. For every time you scream and cry, the same way I once did, I’ll go harder. Don’t yell, and I’ll grant you a five-second break. Deal?”
Tightening my grip on the knife’s handle, I slam it straight down into his lap, slicing through his cock.
His agonized howl fills the warehouse.
There’s reports of instances when people have no recollection of recent events. When they had a literal out-of-body experience.
Yeah. I think I understand.
Torturing to gather information or punishing a crime is straightforward. There’s gritty aspects to being Pakhan that I’ve accepted because relief comes after the blood and gore. A job done for a purpose.
Boris wasn’t a job. He didn’t have information the Bratva required. He was retribution in the simplest and purest form. A personal vendetta I sent the Bratva into years of chasing, all so I could complete the task myself.
It’s after that task when it all hits me.
It’s over.
Boris Agopov can no longer hurt children.
He’ll be burning in Ad , his soul torn apart first by me and then whatever’s down there to finish the task.
I can recall the moments after Boris climbed off me when I was fifteen like it only happened yesterday. When my mind and body were processing what they survived and couldn’t stop shaking.
It’s the same quivers that wrack me now. That slows my steps away from the warehouse’s interior until I all but fall against the door. My grip manages to work long enough to open it, a burst of fresh nighttime air clearing my lungs with a scent other than death. My legs give out and I fall to my hands and knees on the gravel.
I cry. A loud scream shared only with nature. It blends with the darkening sky, heading up to the clouds. If I’m lucky, the gravel takes it too and sucks it beneath the dirt, straight to where his soul is headed for Ad .
It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.
Every single person who harmed me is gone.
So why does it still hurt? Why do my eyes form tears that drip through the blood staining my cheeks, and my hands clench the rocks beneath my palms, and memories of past and present continue to battle, replacing the mantra I remind myself of? It’s over.
When I remembered him approaching me on the bed, I stabbed any part of him my knife could reach.
When I remembered the slimy sensation of his touch, I cut chunks from him.
When I remembered him slicing my clothes, baring me like I was some sort of gift to unwrap, I too cut off his so he could feel everything all the more, so nothing sopped up the blood.
When I remembered him climbing on top of me, his hands spreading my thighs, his hips settling between my legs, I let go.
He screamed.
I sliced.
He screamed.
I stabbed.
He screamed.
I burned.
He screamed.
I screamed.
“I vowed to kill you that day. With every thrust, every touch, every breath, I promised I’d get you back for it all. Yet…this isn’t enough.”
Slice. Stab. Burn.
Scream. Plea. Cry.
Bile rises up my throat and lands on the ground in front of me.
It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.
I wish I could remember everything that happened. Wished I’d have the memories forever, but trauma already locked them within another part of my brain. Maybe it’s for the best, to put it all behind me, but I’m also pissed that my mind has decided what’s best. I want to remember how this night began with a living, human being tied to a chair, who’s now nothing but fractured limbs, burning to ashes that’ll be swept up and dumped in the garbage.
He deserves nothing else. Nothing less and nothing more. He deserves for his memory to be erased from anyone he touched. All that’s left of him now is a couple fingers, pieces of a torso, and maybe a leg. Everything else is undecipherable, the way I always imagined this going.
The tears don’t stop. My body won’t stop. My mind doesn’t work any longer.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, pathetically on my hands and knees crying into the dirt, but eventually my head clears enough I’m able to flip over, taking a seat, back against the warehouse’s exterior.
With a hand caked in blood and skin fragments beneath my nails, I pull out my phone. It takes me three swipes to unlock it. When I should be calling a clean-up crew, it’s a different name I click on.
A name, belonging to a person who despite everything, gave me back a part of myself.